


Somnia In Sanguinem

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Eventual Relationships, M/M, Mention of Past Abuse, Mention of past rape/non-con, eventual fenders, vampire!Fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: Fenris survived the ritual that embedded the lyrium in his flesh due to his vampiric nature - and it is Anders who discovers the truth of the elf's real nature. Will the revelation change things between the two men - and how long can Fenris keep the truth from getting out further?





	1. The Beast

Anders jerked awake with a low cry as the pounding of fists on the doors of the clinic startled him from a nightmare. He sat up, chest still heaving as he panted, his body sheened with sweat as he ran a trembling hand through his dishevelled hair, trying to distinguish between what was real and what was merely the last vestiges of his dreams. Then a frantic redoubling of the pounding on the doors had him lurching to his feet, one hand reaching for his staff. 

His mind was racing as he hurried to unbar the doors. The fists hammering from the other side were not wearing metal gauntlets; that plus the fact that whoever it was, they were hoarsely calling his name, meant it was unlikely to be templars then. The Darktown residents would not use his name either; to them he was merely “the Healer”. Which left only....

“Hawke!” he exclaimed as he threw the doors open to reveal Hawke and Isabela looking serious and worried, Varric and Merrill lingering behind. But his eyes went immediately to the bloodied form of Fenris between the two rogues, the elf’s arms slung limply across their shoulders as Hawke and Isabela held him upright.

“Get him inside,” he urged them tersely. He nodded to Varric as the dwarf paused just inside the door to help him bar it once more. “What happened?”

“Dragon in the Bone Pit,” answered Varric. “The elf took a claw to the chest that was meant for Hawke - tossed him like a bundle of rags. We brought him straight here.”

Anders nodded as he hurried to grab towels, bandages, a bowl of water; he set them on a small table which he dragged over next to the examining table where Hawke and Isabela had laid out the unconscious elf. Someone had already removed Fenris’ breastplate and gauntlets; Merrill hovered to one side, clutching them in her arms as she stared with large eyes.

Anders ignored her as he gestured to the water, heating it with a casual flick of his wrist before taking a cloth and beginning to sponge away blood from Fenris’ skin so he could see the wound more clearly.

“Maker, Anders, you look rough,” said Hawke as he finally took in Anders’ dishevelled hair and the sweat still beading his skin. “Bad night?”

“No worse than usual,” Anders replied tersely. “Now hush. I need to concentrate.” He dropped the cloth back into the hot water then laid his hands either side of the terrible wound and sank his senses down into Fenris’ body as his eyes closed. He was glad the prickly elf was unconscious; the last thing he needed was an argument over his using magic whilst he patched the ungrateful wretch back together yet again - and then he immediately felt a sense of guilty remorse as he inwardly chastised himself for such unworthy thoughts. The elf was gravely hurt and needed his skills; this was no time to dwell on petty irritations.

He wasn’t sure if the thoughts came from himself or Justice; it was getting harder and harder to tell, these days. He shrugged off _that_ disquieting thought and turned his attention to Fenris’ wounds.

Healing Fenris always felt different to healing the others. It wasn’t just his elf nature; there was something about Fenris that was different even from Merrill or any other elf he’d ever healed. The lyrium, he supposed, or perhaps something lingering from whatever it was Fenris’ former master had done to him to ensure the elf’s survival. Whatever the reason, it was always as though something in Fenris’ body were drawing his magic in, almost inexorably draining him far more than it ever did to heal the others, even as it seemed to respond to his healing far faster than, say, Hawke’s body did. Something in Anders - Justice, perhaps - felt drawn to the alluring call of the lyrium even as it drained away Anders’ mana like water.

The dragon’s claws had raked across Fenris’ chest; the gashes were ragged but shallow, for the most part, but one claw had pierced through to Fenris’ lung, puncturing it, and three ribs on that side were cracked. Anders had his work cut out for him as he tuned out the worried murmurs of his friends. Someone pushed the cool glass of a vial into one of his hands; he had no idea who, but he caught the scent of lyrium and knocked it back gratefully. He’d need the extra rush of mana; the scant sleep he’d gotten hadn’t fully replenished his own natural store after a long day’s healing.

He lost track of time as he worked to stem the bleeding and patch the hole in Fenris’ lung from within, repairing broken blood vessels, steadily working from inside outwards, realigning chipped and broken bone, then weaving back together torn muscles and finally skin. He could _feel_ the lyrium lines repairing themselves to flow unbroken through branded flesh once more; it was an unnerving feeling, to touch something so unnatural. 

He could feel the last of his magic drain away as he opened his eyes and staggered; Hawke’s warm, strong hands - one splayed against his back, the other bracing his shoulder - checking his fall.

“Anders?”

“‘M alright,” Anders managed to slur as he leaned forward to brace himself against the edge of the examining table for a moment until the ringing in his ears faded and his vision cleared. “I’m alright,” he repeated, stronger, as he straightened.

“Blondie?” Varric was watching him with a worried expression, and Anders managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he ran a hand through his hair, unheeding of the smear of blood it left along the tousled blond locks. 

“Just tired. It’s been a long day, and healing like this always takes it out of me.” He glanced down at Fenris, who was still unconscious. “He’ll be fine; he’ll sleep for hours now. Leave him here with me; he should be back to his normal mage-hating self in no time. I just want to keep an eye on him until I’m sure he’s OK to make it back to Hightown and that miserable heap of a mansion he calls home in one piece.”

“Are you sure?” asked Hawke. Anders nodded.

“Go on; he’ll be fine.”

“It’s you I’m worried about, Anders,” replied Hawke, still frowning. Anders chuckled tiredly.

“I’ll be fine too,” he shrugged. “I just need to clean up here, bandage him to make sure he doesn’t do any more damage to himself whilst his body finishes restoring itself, and then I’ll leave him to sleep it off whilst I do likewise.”

“As long as you’re sure....”

“Go, Hawke,” he smiled as he straightened and reached for the wet cloth to sluice Fenris’ blood from his hands before he walked them to the door to let them out.

“Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man tonight, Blondie?” asked Varric as they filed out. 

“Assuming I don’t have any last-minute emergencies,” nodded Anders. He nodded to Hawke in farewell, then closed and barred the door behind them.

He turned and leaned against the rough wood with a sigh as he closed his eyes. The sound of a low groan had him straightening and pushing himself away from the door as his eyes snapped open. Fenris was sitting up and turning his head towards Anders.

“Fenris - Maker, you shouldn’t be sitting up yet!” Anders exclaimed as he hurried back to the elf’s side. Fenris was staring at him strangely, his emerald eyes dark and glittering. Anders halted just beyond arm’s reach of the other man, returning the elf’s stare uncertainly.

“Fenris? You're in my clinic,” Anders said slowly. “Do you remember what happened to you? The dragon in the Bone Pit?”

Fenris uttered a low growl as he swung his legs down from the table. Anders’ eyes widened as he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Fenris - you shouldn't be up yet!” he said in alarm. “Look - I know you despise me, but for once just - just stop being stubborn and _listen_ to me - do you honestly think I'd harm you after I've gone to all the trouble of healing you?” He couldn't help the note of annoyance that crept into his voice. 

Fenris was still staring at him with that strange look, a feral, hungry light in his eyes as he took a step towards Anders, the mage slowly backing away.

“Fenris?” said Anders uncertainly. 

The elf lunged, and Anders cried out as Fenris bore him swiftly to the ground, his arms pinned to his sides as the elf snarled. “Fenris, stop!” cried Anders as he wriggled and thrashed, trying to free himself. He froze as Fenris bared long, sharp fangs, and his eyes widened. “What are you??” he gasped. 

Fenris remained silent as he shifted slightly. Anders could only stare helplessly up at Fenris as the elf stroked his cheek slowly with one hand, then slid his fingers into Anders’ hair. Then abruptly he tightened his fingers and Anders’ head was yanked painfully to one side. 

He screamed as Fenris bent his head and sank those gleaming fangs into the side of his neck. He began to struggle, kicking out his legs as he tried to buck Fenris off him; but the warrior was too strong, the weight of his body pinning Anders to the ground as he began to suck at the blood welling up from the wound. The blond apostate thrashed and struggled wildly, but to no avail; he desperately tried to reach for his magic, but there was nothing left inside - he’d expended it all upon healing Fenris. He was utterly defenseless. 

“Fenris, stop!” he pleaded as he felt himself growing light-headed from loss of blood; how much had the elf taken from him?. His struggles were weakening. “Stop,” he repeated desperately; but if Fenris heard him, he said nothing - only continuing to suck greedily at Anders’ throat. 

“Please,” Anders whispered, fighting to remain conscious. “I - I can't....” He felt a deep weariness creep over him, sapping the strength from his limbs as his life slowly ebbed away, drained; he struggled to keep his eyes open as Fenris lifted his head and stared down at him. As Anders lay there, dizzy and weak, a look of horror crossed Fenris’ face. 

Anders closed his eyes, weary. As consciousness fled, he heard Fenris’ voice distantly.

“ _Venhedis!_ What have I done?”

Anders knew no more. 

***

Fenris stared in horror down at Anders as the mage’s eyes fluttered closed and Anders went limp beneath him, face white. Hurriedly, Fenris sat up,then gently shook Anders. “Mage? Mage, wake up!” he demanded, but there was no response. Anders was unconscious, his head rolling limply to the side. There was blood on the side of his neck, and Fenris could taste it upon his lips even as the fog of hunger slowly cleared from his mind. 

He hastily shifted his weight off Anders’ still form and moved to the side then lifted the unconscious man in his arms, feeling deep remorse and shame as he stared down at the mage. Anders was too light, too thin and pale in his arms, clad only in a worn and faded pair of pants, his hair tumbling loose and dishevelled about his face, his breathing shallow and weak. Fenris pressed a finger to the pulse point in Anders’ throat and felt the weak flutter. As the elf lifted his head and glanced around himself at the clinic, he realised what must have happened. 

Hawke and the others evidently had brought him here to Anders for healing, disturbing the mage from his sleep. Fenris’ blood loss must then have awakened his unnatural hunger and clouded his mind once he had been healed enough for his body’s own preternaturally-fast healing to kick in, restoring consciousness only to a feral, half-aware state; he had only a vague memory of lunging at the apostate and pinning him to the floor. It was only too clear to Fenris what must have happened next.

Anders had healed him, and paid the price of Fenris’ bestial nature.

Fenris groaned. Though he had never gotten on with Anders - the abomination unnerving him and annoying him in equal measure - he had never harboured a true hatred of the man. Indeed, he had come to form a grudging respect for the apostate over the past few years he’d known him and fought alongside him as Hawke’s companions on multiple occasions. Despite his being possessed, Anders had rarely given in to his demon and had never struck out at Fenris or the others; and despite the antipathy between them he had never hesitated to offer Fenris healing. He knew the mage worked tirelessly in his clinic to heal all who needed it, often to the point of exhaustion - and Fenris had repaid that care by attacking him.

How much had he taken? He had no idea. He still felt a faint, gnawing hunger inside, but as he stared down at Anders he could only hope and pray that blood loss would not prove fatal to the man.

What to do? Fenris had no idea. He knew little of healing. Would a healing potion work? He felt helpless and full of remorse as he got to his feet, Anders’ limp form cradled in his arms. He laid him down gently upon a nearby cot, straightening the unconscious man’s limbs before he turned to cast about the clinic desperately. 

He spotted a set of shelves over by a bench - Anders’ work area, he guessed. The shelves were filled with bundles of herbs, jars of powders and reagents - and various potion bottles. He hurried over and began to hunt through the bottles for a healing potion. 

He couldn't read the labels properly, but he found a couple of potions that looked the right colour. Uncorking one, he cautiously sniffed. The scent of elfroot filled his nose. 

Hoping and praying he'd found the right potion, he hurried back to Anders’ side. Prising the mage’s lips open, he set the rim of the flask against them and tipped the bottle just enough to trickle a little of the dark red potion into Anders’ mouth.

Anders coughed as the thick, almost syrupy liquid hit the back of his throat, then swallowed convulsively. Heartened, Fenris sat down on the edge of the cot and slipped an arm around Anders’ shoulders, lifting him slightly before carefully trickling a little more of the potion into the insensate mage’s mouth. Anders swallowed it, then gave a small, soft moan, his eyelids fluttering slightly. Fenris held his breath and watched intently, but Anders only gave a small sigh, his eyes closing once more.

Slowly, Fenris fed the potion to Anders, a small sip at a time, until it was gone. Then he carefully lay Anders back down again before sitting back and glancing around, at a loss for what to do next. There was more colour in Anders’ face now, for which Fenris was grateful - but he had no idea what else he could do for the man now. He could only let the potion and sleep do the rest, and hope it would be enough.

He clenched his fist in anger. He had kept his true nature hidden and concealed from everyone for so long, and now in a moment of weakness he had lost control and hurt the mage.Guilt gnawed at him - along with a deep anger and revulsion with himself. What was he to do? Anders now knew what he was, though in his current state he was in no position to go telling anyone else. Would he even remember what had happened to him when he awakened, whenever that might be? His secret was safe for now, but would it remain that way? He had no idea.

He couldn’t leave Anders in this vulnerable state. Fenris would have to stay with him until he awakened, and then try to explain himself. He could only hope Anders would listen.


	2. Lies and Half-truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wakes up and Fenris has some explaining to do.

Anders drifted slowly awake to the smell of something savory drifting from nearby; even as he opened his eyes and blinked at the dirty, cobweb-festooned ceiling, he felt his mouth begin to water at the smell. He stared at a dark brown stain on the dirty grey expanse of plaster overhead. Old blood, he guessed, his thoughts still a little woolly and sleep-fogged. It looked like the ceiling of his clinic.

He was lying on one of the cots in his clinic, he realised; someone had tucked a blanket around him as he slept. No, several blankets; he was warm and comfortable for once. He felt strangely weak and a little light-headed; had he been ill? He didn’t remember getting sick - didn’t think it was actually possible anymore, in fact. Grey Wardens, as a rule, didn’t get sick; and being a Spirit Healer meant his immune system was stronger than most to begin with. His body healed fast, normally - always had, even before Justice, even before his Joining.

He wondered who had been looking after him; he didn’t remember falling asleep out here in the clinic, and he certainly wouldn’t have taken so many blankets - it would have felt wasteful. And he certainly wouldn’t have left food cooking unattended. Whatever food it was, it smelled really good, mind you. Maybe it was Lirene.

He sat up with an effort and turned towards the scent of food with the beginnings of a smile - 

That died on his lips as the white-haired elf turned from the pot of stew he was tending to glance in his direction.

Memory came flooding back in an instant - Fenris pinning him to the floor, sharp teeth fastened to his throat, the horrible feeling of the very life being drawn from his veins as he weakened. Anders’ eyes widened as he scrambled up from the cot and backed away, lifting one hand up as though to ward Fenris off though the elf had not risen from his seat. 

Anders pressed a hand against the side of his neck where he had been bitten. “You - you bit me!”

Fenris carefully lifted the pot off the fire and wiped his hands on a rag before rising to his feet slowly. Anders backpedalled until his back hit the wall and he could go no further.

“Peace,” rumbled the elf in what sounded suspiciously like a weary tone. “I will not hurt you.”

“You _drank my blood!!_ ” exclaimed Ander indignantly. 

Fenris sighed, his ears drooping a little. “Very well; I will not hurt you _again_ ,” he amended.

Anders remained pressed against the wall of the clinic and stared at Fenris, his fingers still searching for the scabbed wound that ought to be there but finding nothing but smooth skin, beneath which he could feel his own pulse racing with the adrenaline of fear. Confused, he frowned, reaching inside to see with his healer’s senses.

No trace of the wound - but he hadn’t dreamed the attack; he _had_ lost a lot of blood, which explained his weakness. 

His eyes lifted to Fenris again, who seemed to guess at Anders’ discomfort. “You will not find a wound,” stated the elf. “I do not know how it works, but the wound heals over within minutes unless my... victim... has died.”

“Why aren’t I dead?” asked Anders quietly. “You would have killed me, wouldn’t you?”

“No!” exclaimed Fenris, horrified. “No, not - I would not -” He stammered as he tried to get the words out; as Anders stared at him, he found himself believing the white-haired warrior in spite of himself. Fenris really hadn’t meant to harm him.

“What are you?” whispered Anders.

Fenris’ shoulders slumped, his ears drooping. “I was not Danarius’ first attempt at... _this_ ,” he said quietly as he held out his arms to show his lyrium; distantly, Anders noted that the elf had not dressed in his customary armour. It seemed strange to see the elf standing there in just tunic and pants; it made him seem somehow less intimidating - or might, if the elf hadn't come damned near to killing Anders the previous night. “I was merely the first to survive,” continued Fenris as he lowered his arms. “He deliberately infected me with... something, I know not what. Some foul concoction he forced me to drink before he began, perhaps, or some ritual of blood magic -" His lip curled in a sneer before he went on. "I do not know what it was he did to me; my earliest memories are of waking in agony as he carved the lyrium into my flesh - and through the pain, such a hunger as I do not believe I could ever have endured before; an unnatural burning that was almost as painful as the lyrium. He brought other slaves to me and I....” His voice became soft with remembered horror. “I killed them,” he finished quietly.

Anders lowered himself to sit upon the nearest cot, shaken. “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked softly.

“I came to my senses and realised what I was doing,” shrugged Fenris. “I did not wish to hurt you, much less kill you - particularly when I evidently have you to thank for saving my life yet again; for which, you have my thanks,” he added. “It was a poor way for me to repay you, I am afraid - and for _that_ , I can only apologise.”

Anders blinked, then lowered his head to his hands as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had no idea what to make of any of this; in general, interactions with the prickly elf had amounted to sniping comments and surly insults between them - the elf had never shown any signs of cordiality or friendship towards Anders that he could recall. And yet....

He lifted his head to glance at Fenris as his vision clouded over; he felt himself falling, dizzy.

Gentle hands caught him as he fell, wrapped around him comfortingly as they lifted him from the floor. Gentle hands - and yet, as the ringing in Anders’ ears faded and his vision cleared, he could only remember how those same hands had pinned him to the floor as Fenris attacked him. He shoved the elf away roughly as he pulled away from him.

“Get away from me!” he rasped as he pushed himself to his feet in spite of his dizziness, and glared at Fenris. “Don’t touch me!”

“I only thought -” began Fenris as he stepped away.

“I don’t give a damn what you thought - haven’t you done enough? Or had you changed your mind and decided to have another go? Finish me off?” Anders backed away and reached for his staff where it rested against the side of the examination table. 

He drew himself up and gestured towards the doors. “You’ve obviously healed enough - get out. Get out, and leave me alone!”

“Anders, I -”

“Get _out!_ ” roared Anders, a flicker of sharp electric blue briefly sheening over his amber eyes.

Fenris backed away, then turned and swiftly gathered his armour and sword. Wordlessly, as Anders watched, the elf let himself out and left.

The moment the elf was gone and he was alone again, Anders let himself collapse back down onto the nearest narrow cot, the staff slipping from his trembling fingers to clatter upon the floor beside him.

There was no way he’d be capable of healing anyone whilst he was in this state. He felt weak and cold, and all the internal mental castigation in the world couldn’t force him back to his feet again. Not that _that_ could halt the hypercritical inner monologue that chased him back down into exhausted sleep once more as the stew slowly grew cold and congealed in the iron pot.

***

Fenris stared down at his cards morosely and reached for his glass of wine. He was glad that he had perfected a neutral blank expression long ago; it had always served him well during these weekly games of Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite, and it served him well now as the others - Isabela, Merrill, Varric and Hawke - wondered aloud what could be keeping Anders.

“You’re sure he was alright when you left this morning, Fenris?” pressed Hawke for the third time.

“As I told you before, Hawke - I did not see Anders when I left,” replied Fenris, not lifting his eyes from his cards even as he hated himself for the lie. “I awoke alone, I dressed, I left.”

“Likely he was sleeping still,” shrugged Merrill as she drew another card. “After all, he _was_ pretty exhausted when we left him, and I don’t think he’s been sleeping at _all_ well, the poor thing - did you see the shadows under his eyes, Hawke?” She stared at the card she’d drawn and pulled a face; Isabela chuckled.

“Kitten, I’d fold if I were you,” she advised the elf.

“Are my cards really that bad?” she exclaimed.

“Daisy, with that expression? They _must_ be,” chuckled Varric. “Alright, come on kids - show your hands.” He spread his own hand face up and both Hawke and Merrill groaned.

Fenris tossed his hand down, his lip curling in disgust as Varric chuckled again and started to collect his winnings. 

“It’s rare for you to lose so much Fenris - everything alright?” inquired Hawke as the dwarf gathered up the cards and began shuffling them once more.

“I’m fine,” replied Fenris with a shrug, then got to his feet. “I need more wine.”

“Tell Norah to send up another round of ale, Elf!” called Varric as Fenris headed towards the stairs down towards the common room; the elf raised a hand indicating he’d heard. 

As he waited to be served, he couldn’t help but think about Merrill’s words - how the mage hadn’t been sleeping well recently. He had been so focused on what he’d done to Anders that he hadn’t fully taken in the man’s appearance - but now he thought on it, Anders’ face _did_ look more gaunt of late, and his eyes shadowed. And now he thought on it further, Anders had been barefoot, clad only in a faded pair of grey pants - had Hawke and the others roused the mage from sleep to heal Fenris? The man must have been exhausted even before Fenris had repaid him so shoddily; no wonder he had been so angry.

He returned to the others with a fresh bottle of wine, Norah promising to bring the ale up shortly; to his surprise, Anders was sitting at the table between Hawke and Varric. The mage looked ill and exhausted; he was smiling wanly at some joke of Hawke’s, until his gaze drifted and fell upon Fenris, whereupon it disappeared.

Varric and Hawke glanced up and greeted Fenris as the elf took his seat once more. Fenris nodded to them as he uncorked the bottle of wine and busied himself pouring a fresh glass, his focus on the crimson liquid instead of the mage sitting opposite. The wine was doing little to distract him however; perhaps it was the proximity of the man he had so nearly killed the previous night, but as he stared at the wine he couldn’t help but recall the scarlet of blood upon Anders’ torn throat, the colour so stark and vivid against the blanched skin.

He took a hasty sip, almost spilling the wine down himself in his haste; he glanced up almost involuntarily as he lowered the glass and licked a stray drop from his bottom lip before it could run down his chin and found Anders was staring at him, his face pale, what little colour had returned to his cheeks drained away again - and Fenris suddenly realised he was not the only one at the table who had noticed how much the wine resembled blood.

Anders swallowed convulsively, and for a horrible moment fenris thought the mage was about to blurt out just what Fenris had done to him. Fenris held his breath, a nameless chill of dread running through him; but the mage lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping slightly as he reached for his cup of water.

“You alright there, Blondie?” asked Varric in a tone of kind concern. Anders gave him a small, wan smile.

“Sorry, I’m not really very good company tonight,” he shrugged.

“You look worse than usual, Anders,” exclaimed Merrill before she suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth then began apologising. “Not that I’m saying you usually look _bad_ or anything! Just very tired! Are you not sleeping very well?”

“Merrill, I _never_ sleep well,” Anders replied tiredly. “Part of that whole Grey Warden thing? Dashing uniform, lousy dreams. I don’t wear the uniform any more but the dreams are... not exactly optional.”

“You didn’t spend all day working in your clinic did you?” said Hawke with a frown. “Fenris says you were still asleep when he left this morning.”

Which wasn’t true, but then nor was what Fenris had _actually_ said either; he opted to remain silent and instead keep his eyes on his glass of wine, even as he was keenly aware of Anders’ sharp glance.

“Did he now?” said Anders quietly. “I was aware of him leaving - it’s true I passed out again shortly afterwards though.”

Fenris felt a sharp, unfamiliar pang at the mage’s words; a stab of guilt that he had left the man in that state. And yet, Anders had ordered him to leave.

“No, I left the clinic closed today,” Anders was saying to Hawke. “I needed to take stock of what herbs I’m running low on. Speaking of which, were you planning on taking a trip out to the Wounded Coast any time soon?”

“Yes, as it happens, I was - Aveline tells me there’s been increased bandit activity up near the old slaver caverns and she asked me to check it out,” replied Hawke as Norah entered with a tray of mugs and a bowl of stew for Anders, who turned to Varric with a half-hearted glare before relenting and nodding his thanks.

Hawke waited until everyone had grabbed their drinks and Anders had had a mouthful of stew before going on. “The guard are overstretched as it is, and whilst the caverns are technically in the patrol area, she just doesn’t have the men to cover them right now. So, if you were wanting a chance to get out and gather herbs, I wouldn’t say no to having my favourite healer along as well.”

“Hawke, I’m your _only_ healer,” Anders pointed out between mouthfuls.

“Then that settles it - I’m not going out to the Wounded Coast without my only healer - so you’re coming with us, Anders!” replied Hawke with a grin. Anders gave him a tired smile in return. 

“Who’s ‘us’?” he asked as he turned back to the bowl of hot stew.

“You, me, Varric, Isabela - and Fenris,” answered Hawke.

Fenris didn’t need to look up to know that Anders was staring at him again.

This was shaping up to be an interesting excursion - and for all the wrong reasons....


	3. Promising silence

If he had known beforehand that Fenris was to be a part of the trip, Anders might have made excuses for why he couldn’t come after all. He had been more than halfway tempted to do so anyway - except Hawke had given him _that_ look, blue eyes wide, projecting an air of innocence and the assumption that of _course_ Anders wouldn’t leave him to face the risk of possible maiming and almost certain death without a healer. 

Which was nonsense, of course - the only ones in imminent danger of maiming and death would be the bandits unfortunate enough to tangle with Hawke and his friends. Not that pointing this out to Hawke had ever gotten Anders anywhere; Hawke was a force of nature unto himself, and at some point along the way Anders had gotten swept off his feet by the tide of the man’s personality and charm and resigned himself to the knowledge that he may as well just go along with Hawke’s plans, as it was invariably the easier course. And helping Hawke usually entailed helping others who had been treated unjustly in any case; eliminating the bandits would make the coast safer for travellers on the roads, including those Ferelden refugees who chose to depart Kirkwall in search of a new life here in the Free Marches.

In many ways, Hawke reminded Anders of the Warden. He’d been swept along by the force of Beren Amell’s personality as well - both in the Circle and then later, after Anders owed him his life and liberty.

Beren had had blue eyes too, Anders mused.

Anders truly _did_ need to replenish his stock herbs in any case, and at least with Hawke around he could do so without the risk of encountering the bandits by himself. There’d been rumours of slavers operating along the Wounded Coast recently besides the usual bandits, and he had no intentions of finding himself dosed up on magebane and handcuffed in the bowels of a slaver ship bound for Tevinter. Fenris had made it quite clear - repeatedly - just what he thought Anders’ chances would be in the Imperium; which was to say, pretty slim and likely unpleasant. Tevinter, it seemed, was the kind of place where a mage would thrive - if he were ruthless enough to trample on the backs of others and wasn’t too picky about blood magic; a Spirit Healer without ties to one of the noble houses, unprepared to resort to blood magic and keeping slaves, would soon find himself a slave - and pretty pennies were to be had for any slaver bringing in a mage. 

Fenris had seemed to take almost a vindictive pleasure in regaling Anders with those facts, as though he relished the thought of seeing Anders in slave collar and chains. Anders wondered if the elf would take such pleasure if he only knew how often Anders’ nightmares featured chains and cold iron collars.

Many of Fenris’ statements about mages, Anders had attempted to ignore rather than be drawn into yet another fight (not that he’d ever had much success on that score), but the elf might have been surprised to learn just how much attention Anders had paid to his statements about Tevinter - and taken them very much to heart. It was purely enlightened self-interest, of course - or so he told himself. Anders had spent almost his whole life running away in one way or another, and when he inevitably would find himself having to flee Kirkwall in time, he had no intentions of exchanging slavery at the hands of templars for slavery at the hands of magisters. 

(He tried to ignore the indignant voice deep within that protested the injustice of a society built upon slavery; he had enough on his plate with the mage underground and combating the injustices of the Chantry wherever and however he could. He was only one man, and combating an entire Empire was beyond him. Justice’s surge of righteous anger was hard to quell and even harder to ignore however.)

His attentiveness _certainly_ had nothing to do with any unwitting feelings of kinship that the elf’s matter-of-fact mentions of his own treatment as a slave may have aroused in Anders, he told himself. After all, the elf evidently felt no such kinship - he certainly made that clear, whenever Anders mentioned the injustices done to the mages in the Circle. (The mage tried to ignore the nagging feelings of self-recrimination whenever he felt his irritation rising over that.)

Maybe it was sympathy for what Fenris had gone through in his past that was the reason why he hadn’t told Hawke and Varric just what had really transpired in his clinic when Fenris woke up; or maybe it was something else. When Anders had finally dragged himself to the Hanged Man, Hawke and Varric had both been aghast at his state of exhaustion

All these thoughts were running through Anders’ head as they made their way through the twisting paths that threaded through the shallow canyons above the cliffs along the coast. The air was parched and hot, and Anders thought he would likely drown in his own sweat beneath all his layers. Or melt. Or keel over from heat stroke. Likely all three, before they encountered any sign of these bandits they were supposed to be on the lookout for.

He glared balefully at Fenris’ back as the elf strode on ahead of the others. The white-haired warrior showed no signs of discomfort from the sun as he stalked along the dusty path, eyes and ears alert for any signs or sounds of threat, oblivious to Anders’ stare as the mage sweltered in the heat, Varric and Hawke both looking uncomfortable as well. The dwarf was evidently regretting his decision not to leave his leather greatcoat behind, and Hawke was sweating heavily in his leather rogue’s armour. Only Isabela seemed as comfortable and at home in the oppressive heat as Fenris.

“You know, you really would be more comfortable if you stripped down,” she mused conversationally as she strode beside Anders, glancing at him and letting her eyes trawl down his body. 

“I’m fine,” replied Anders tersely. He reached for his water canteen and unstoppered it, then frowned as he realised only a small trickle of water remained. How had he drunk it all already?

“You don’t _look_ fine,” pressed the Rivaini pirate. Just up ahead, Hawke halted and glanced back, Varric stopping beside him.

“Anders? Are you alright? You look very pale,” remarked Hawke. Beyond him, the elf halted and turned to stare at the mage.

Anders halted as well and leaned on his staff. “I told you, I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted stubbornly.

Fenris made his way back to the others. “There is a small spring just up ahead; it is shaded by several trees. I suggest we stop a while and refill out water canteens. Mine is empty.”

Anders blinked. It sounded suspiciously like the elf was being uncharacteristically _considerate_. But far be it for Anders to quibble whilst they stood there in the heat of the blazing sun.

“Lead on then,” nodded Hawke, gesturing for Fenris to lead the way. The elf eyed Anders for a moment with an inscrutable look before turning away.

“At least take your coat off,” suggested Isabela as she tugged at his sleeve. Anders scowled at her and stomped after Hawke and Fenris.

***

The shade beneath the trees was welcome relief from the midday heat - as was the refreshing, cool water. Anders had finally been persuaded to take off his heavy coat and sat with his back resting against the trunk of a tree, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his shirt unlaced at the neck to catch the cool breeze.

Isabela and Varric were whispering to each other as the Rivaini pirate peered over the dwarf’s shoulder at the leather journal he was scrawling in. Another of their little “friend fics”, no doubt; he idly wondered who was the unwitting protagonist in this one. Probably Hawke, from the way Isabela kept glancing at the rogue who was oblivious as he frowned at the loose binding on the haft of one of his knives.

He leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes as he allowed himself to relax for once. It would be folly to chase after the bandits in the midday heat; they’d decided to rest for a while in the cool shade under the trees to while away the hottest part of the day, and Anders was welcoming the chance to do nothing for once. It was rare he had such an opportunity - and even Justice was silent for once, evidently recognising that there was nothing useful Anders could do at this particular moment.

He must have dozed off; he was startled awake by a hand lightly squeezing his shoulder and a low voice near his ear. 

“Mage. Be perfectly still.”

Anders’ eyes flew open in alarm. Fenris was crouched beside him, his breath warm upon the side of his neck and his fingers tightening upon Anders’ shoulder, halting the mage’s instinctive flinch. Anders could see at a glance that it was far later now, and the others were nowhere to be seen. And in front of him, sniffing at Anders’ right foot, was the biggest feral mabari he’d ever seen in his life.

Anders swallowed hard and glanced to the side - to see his staff lying upon the ground just out of reach. A low growl drew his attention back to the mabari as it bared fangs, hackles raised, crouched ready to spring.

Even as it leapt towards his throat with a horrible snarl, there was a flash of brilliant blue-white light and then Anders grunted as the dog’s body slammed heavily into his chest. He glanced up with wide eyes at Fenris who stood over him, the mabari’s heart clutched in one bloodied fist for a moment before he threw it aside and drew his sword, leaping to meet the rest of the pack with a snarl of his own. Anders struggled out from beneath the still-warm corpse of the dead mabari and reached for his staff.

Between them, it took a few minutes’ hard fighting before all the mabari were down and dead. Panting, Anders leaned on his staff for a moment to catch his breath before he straightened and glanced at Fenris.

“That could have been nasty,” he gasped as he attempted to wipe ineffectually at the blood soaking through his shirt. “Where are the others?”

“They went to swim in the cove,” replied Fenris as he turned slowly. He made his way over to his pack and tugged out a cloth to wipe the blood off his blade with. “I felt it best not to leave you sleeping unprotected.”

Anders ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and stared at Fenris. “Then I suppose I owe you my life,” he remarked. Fenris glanced up at him.

“Yes, I suppose you do,” the elf agreed. “Though I would settle for an answer.”

“What?” said Anders, bewildered. “An answer? To what?”

Fenris walked slowly towards Anders, who backed away as the warrior drew closer. “You have not told Hawke or the others what transpired in your clinic. You have not told them what I am.”

Anders let out a small yelp as his back hit the trunk of a tree, unable to retreat further as Fenris advanced on him.

“Why have you kept silent?” pressed Fenris as he drew closer. “You were angry. Afraid. And yet you said nothing of what I did to you. Why?”

“You said you hadn’t meant to hurt me,” Anders blurted out. “I - I believed you. You could have killed me, but you didn’t.”

Fenris halted in front of Anders, mere inches away. “I could have,” the elf nodded. “But I did not wish for you to die.”

Though Anders stood several inches taller than the elf, somehow Fenris seemed to loom over him as Anders pressed himself against the trunk of the tree. His staff slipped from suddenly-nerveless fingers as he felt cold fear sheet over him. He swallowed hard, remembering the feel of sharp fangs sinking into his throat.

“I will not hurt you, Anders,” said Fenris quietly. “Why would I have stayed to protect you if I wished you harm?”

“What do you want, Fenris?” asked Anders nervously, hating the way his voice quavered slightly. “My silence? I’ve not breathed a word to Hawke or anyone else - I swear it.”

“I know,” nodded Fenris. “What I don’t understand is why. You have no love for me; you ordered me from your clinic when I tried to apologise. Yet you have kept my secret. I am grateful to you for that, but I have to wonder at your silence.”

“I know what it’s like to have to keep a part of yourself secret,” said Anders bleakly. “I’m sure you have your reasons for not sharing that part of yourself with the others. Maker knows, I have enough secrets of my own.”

“Just so,” nodded Fenris. “And now I must trust you to also keep mine.”

“I swear I won’t breathe a word!” Anders exclaimed, pressing his back hard against the tree trunk.

Fenris stared at him then sighed. “Anders, I do not wish you to be afraid of me,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’ve got a bloody weird way of showing it!” snapped Anders. “You scare the shit out of me, and this -” he gestured to the scant inches between them, “is _not helping!_ I’ve told you I won’t breathe a word; what more do you want from me? More blood?”

Fenris recoiled as though stung. “Not that! I - no, I do not wish your blood!”

“Then what? What do you want from me, dammit?” exclaimed Anders.

“I-” began Fenris, then fell silent as they both heard the sounds of running feet. The elf turned abruptly away and stalked over to one of the dead mabari, turning it over with a foot as Isabela, Varric and Hawke stumbled to a halt and stared around at the carnage.

“Anders! What happened? Are you hurt?” exclaimed Hawke as he hurried over to the mage. 

“I’m fine,” sighed Anders as he shrugged. “This blood’s not mine.”

“Let me just check,” said Hawke as he reached for the hem of Anders’ ragged and bloodstained shirt; resigned, Anders tugged the shirt off over his head so Hawke could reassure himself the mage was unharmed.

He was aware of Fenris’ eyes upon him as he turned away.


	4. Nocturne

“It’s damned weird, Hawke,” Aveline sighed as she shook her head and sat down. 

“I would have thought you’d be glad of a few less cut-throats to deal with, Aveline?” replied the rogue as he lowered his tankard and eyed her keenly. “Less for your patrols to worry about?”

“No, it just gives me something _else_ to worry about,” replied the red-haired woman dourly. “It’s petty thieves, muggers and bandits now - but for how long? Who’s to say it won’t be innocent civilians next?”

“This is Kirkwall - innocence is pretty thin on the ground round here, Red,” pointed out Varric; Aveline ignored him.

“I can’t afford to turn a blind eye to this, Hawke,” she went on. “ _Something_ is preying on lowlifes, and I have eight bodies in the morgue that have been drained of blood - no signs of wounds to explain how - and I’m no closer to finding out what or why.”

“Blood mages?” wondered Hawke, a thoughtful look in his eye. “But then I’d expect Meredith to be frothing mad over it and stepping up Templar patrols, and I’ve heard no word of that.”

“Whatever it is, it’s hunting ground is Hightown, and I can’t afford the chance that whatever or whoever it is might go after some noble next,” sighed Aveline.

“Maybe you should take a look at those bodies, Anders,” suggested Hawke.

The blond apostate’s head jerked up and he glanced round, startled. “Me?” 

“You and Merrill are our only mages,” the rogue pointed out, “and _you’re_ the healer. You should be able to tell if this is the work of a blood mage or something else, which would at least give us some idea of what we’re dealing with - and whether some rich noble seems like a likely target for it to go after next.”

Anders nodded slowly; Hawke’s suggestion made sense. He felt uneasy however. He already had a pretty good idea as to the _who_ and the _why_ ; he didn’t need to look at dead bodies to answer that. He could hardly tell Hawke that though - much less Aveline; Maker only knew what he could tell them however that wouldn’t involve giving away Fenris’ secret. Fenris hadn’t seen fit to share the truth of what he really was with Hawke and the others, and Anders honestly couldn't say he blamed him - after all, if Justice hadn’t taken him over when the templars sprang their trap with Karl as bait, Anders very much doubted he’d have confessed to Hawke that he was possessed. 

(He ignored the disquieting feeling of guilt that stirred inside at the thought of maintaining such a deception. Yes, Hawke was an honourable man - for a mercenary rogue, at any rate - but Anders had had no reason to assume that when Hawke had first walked into his clinic, no matter how much he resembled his cousin. Marius Hawke was not Beren Amell - though when he’d walked into Anders’ clinic, for a moment he’d thought....)

“Blondie?” Varric’s voice brought him back from his meandering thoughts.

“Sorry - yes, I’ll go check these bodies of yours, Aveline,” he nodded. 

“Thank you, Anders,” she replied gravely. “It’s irregular but not unheard-of to bring in an outside consult - drop by my office tomorrow morning and I can let you into the morgue.”

Talk turned to other things; Isabela arrived, the cards came out, and the rest of the evening was whiled away over the usual game of Wicked Grace.

“I wonder where Fenris has gotten to?” mused Hawke after the fourth hand went to Isabela. “You’d be taking less of Anders’ coin if he were here.”

“Yeah, Blondie would be giving it to the elf instead,” snorted Varric as he dealt the next hand.

“Oh, hah hah,” intoned Anders as he stared down at his new hand. As it happened, he’d been wondering himself just where the elf had got to. Not that he was worried about Fenris - the elf was certainly capable of looking after himself, after all, and besides it was none of Anders’ business what the elf got up to when they weren’t out somewhere with Hawke - but he’d never been known to miss a Wicked Grace evening. Not that Anders cared. (He ignored the little flare of inward guilty annoyance.)

He discarded a card and drew another, then rolled his eyes at his abysmal luck and threw the cards down. “I fold.”

“Already?” said Hawke, as Isabela sniggered. 

Anders shrugged. “It’s obviously not my lucky night - again.” He drank the last of his cider then rose to his feet.

“Going already, sweet thing?” asked Isabela.

“It’s getting late, and if I’m to be looking at Aveline’s mysterious corpses in the morning then I’d best be getting back,” Anders shrugged.

“I appreciate it, Anders,” nodded Aveline. “Drop by in the morning; I’m on duty from the sixth bell.”

“An early start then,” sighed Anders. “I’m usually awake by dawn anyway.” He shrugged ruefully.

“Still not sleeping well?” asked Hawke, a sympathetic look in his eye; Anders laughed mirthlessly.

“As ever. I’m used to it.” He shrugged.

He nodded his farewell to the others before reaching for his staff and making his way back down the stairs. He headed across the common room and out into the night air.

Though the sun had set hours ago, the air was still hot, humid and oppressive, the desultory night breeze doing little to ease the heat. The only advantage to be said for living in Darktown was that at least the sewer depths of the city were on the whole cooler than the upper reaches of the city, if one could tolerate the stink that built up in long stretches of dry weather. 

Yet it was not towards Darktown that Anders found himself turning, but towards the wider, cleaner streets of Hightown. He found himself heading towards Fenris’ dilapidated mansion, though he could not have said precisely why. 

There was something wrong; he could feel it. The streets were too quiet, too empty. The air was heavy and stifling; a breathless hush that Anders could feel pressing him down. he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and suddenly his hands felt clammy, a cold shiver down his spine in spite of the heat. All his senses were suddenly screaming at him to turn, walk - no, to _run_ away, even as he felt a firm determination rise from within to press on - a feeling of certainty that he _must_ press on.

He was crossing a large empty square when he spotted something huddled on the ground by the steps of one of the houses. He’d taken it for some discarded cloak or other garment until he got closer and realised it was a man. Hurrying over, he crouched down and rolled the man over onto his back then recoiled with a gasp.

The man was very much dead, his eyes staring lifelessly; but that was not what had alarmed Anders.

The man was white. Bloodless. Something - or some _one_ \- had drained him of blood.

A footstep behind him had him whirling around as he rose to his feet and reached for his staff - too late, as a dark shape loomed over him and sprang for him, grasping hands outstretched as it thrust him backwards, clawing for his throat. He barely managed to throw a hasty barrier up in time before his back hit a stone wall. The thing snarled as it struggled in vain to sink elongated fangs into his throat.

“Fenris, no, stop - it’s me!” Anders cried as he tried to force his assailant away. His only answer was another snarl as the creature lifted its head -

It wasn’t Fenris.

The moonlight illuminated angular features that were all wrong, the eyes glaring balefully from misshapen sockets, the hair lank and greasy and a nondescript colour - like dirty dishwater, pale as the eyes were; and the hands that grasped for his neck were twisted and gnarled, the nails like talons. He read only an atavistic anger and hunger in those pale eyes as the creature snarled at him.

“What are you?” he gasped.

The creature lashed out and its claws somehow penetrated his barrier. He cried out as they tore into his cheek, barely missing his left eye; he felt bloody, hot and wet, stream down his face from the wound.

The barrier faltered; and Anders felt hot breath upon his neck a moment before he felt teeth sink into his unprotected throat.

He managed to scream once.

***

He was lying on the ground. The stone beneath his right cheek was chill and cold. He felt weak and ill, and he slowly became aware that he was shivering slightly in spite of the evening’s warmth. He was sprawled upon his side on the hard flagstones, and he felt more tired than he could ever remember being before.

“Mage? Mage, open your eyes.” 

The voice was gruff; Anders thought absently that there was a note of concern or worry there.

 _Concerned? For me?_ He struggled to open his eyes as he felt a hand grasp his shoulder and shake it slightly. He managed to open his eyes with difficulty. “’m awake,” he managed to slur.  
Someone was crouched over him, one hand upon his shoulder; he could just about make out a pair of worried green eyes as his vision swam.

“Mage, you cannot stay here. Get up. Can you stand?”

He pondered the question. Thinking was hard; he was so exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift away into sleep....

_No. Get up. You cannot sleep now._

“Jus’... just let me... let me be a... a moment.” Talking was hard.

“Anders, you cannot sleep here.” 

He managed a small whine of protest as the elf slung his arm around his shoulders and then the dazed apostate was hauled to his feet. His knees threatened to give way; Fenris gave a low sigh and then Anders gave a small yelp of surprise as he was swept off his feet into the elf’s arms.

“Peace,” rumbled Fenris. “I have you. You are safe now.”

“Fenris... I know,” Anders slurred. “I know what’s been killing the bandits.”

“Do not speak of that now,” said the elf as he began carrying Anders away from the square.  
“Knew... knew it couldn’t be you,” Anders went on. “You... wouldn’t have been so careless... leave so many bodies around....” He rested his head upon Fenris’ shoulder, not capable of caring where the elf was taking him. “I am so tired.”

“I have you,” repeated Fenris, his voice quieter, more gentle. “You are safe now.”

“Not... afraid,” slurred Anders drowsily. “You... you wouldn’t....” His eyes slid shut and he knew no more.

***

Fenris strode swiftly through the streets. The mage was alarmingly light in spite of his height; the elf had no trouble carrying him, and he bore the unconscious man to his home. Kicking the door closed behind him, he skirted around the mummified corpses in the foyer and hall then carried Anders swiftly up the stairs and into the room he had claimed for his own.

He laid Anders gently down upon his bed and swiftly divested the apostate of his battered feathered coat and the long patchwork leather tunic beneath, then unbuckled the long boots and eased them off Anders’ feet. Then he busied himself fetching healing potions and a stamina draught. He set them upon a low table he dragged over to the side of the bed before carrying over a full pitcher of clean water and a cup.

Then, as he had done before, he carefully poured a healing potion between Anders’ pale lips, followed by the stamina potion. Then he carefully laid Anders back against the pillows and drew the blankets over him, up to his chest, before sitting back and regarding the unconscious man silently. 

He settled himself with a bottle of wine, and waited for Anders to awaken, keeping silent vigil.


	5. Mere Gratitude

Anders slowly drifted back towards consciousness. As he gradually came back to himself, mind still struggling to disengage itself from the comforting touch of the Fade, he felt incredibly weak and ill - but also somehow warm and comfortable. The mattress beneath his back was soft and yet firm enough that for once, his back didn’t ache the way it usually did when he’d slept on one of the hard cots in the clinic. 

_Not home in Darktown, then._ The thought was fuzzy and vague.

His head rested upon soft pillows that held a faint tang of iron and sword oil; Hawke? Did Hawke find him sprawled unconscious in the street then? His memories of the previous night were hazy and indistinct. He remembered a low voice telling him he was safe; strong arms cradling him gently as he was carried.

No, wait - the eyes that had stared at him as he lay upon the ground had been green, not blue. And as he came more awake he realised that beneath the tang of iron was the definite scent of lyrium.

With that his eyes snapped open.

“Ah. You are awake,” rumbled a low voice. He turned his head to see Fenris straightening in his chair and leaning forwards with a keen look. “How do you feel?”

Anders turned his head to stare up at the hole in the ceiling a little to the left of the bed as he considered the question. “Weak,” he said quietly after a moment. “Tired. I can’t quite remember what happened to me last night....”

“You were attacked by... another of my kind,” said Fenris slowly. “Or so I believe. The creature fled when I approached, which is likely why you still breathe.”

Anders glanced back to the elf. Something about him - the slightly pained look in those emerald green eyes perhaps, or the way he frowned in concern, made Anders struggle to sit up.

“Hey, it’s - I’m going to be alright, you - you saved me, I’m still here -” He was aware he was babbling slightly; he could feel a hysterical giggle welling its way up and fought to contain it. This whole situation felt unreal and bizarre; he wasn’t used to this strange new Fenris who exhibited concern for him and had obviously cared for him whilst he was unconscious and helpless. A Fenris that didn’t snarl and snap at him.

Fenris leaned forward, and a rare smile curved his lips slightly. “I am glad... Anders.” 

Anders blinked. Fenris said his name. Not _mage_ , but _Anders_. He clutched the blankets with fingers that shook slightly, for once wordless. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Fenris smile before - not like this, at _Anders_ , his eyes lit up with warmth.

“You should not sit up - it will take some time to regain your strength, I think,” said the elf as he rose and gently pressed Anders back down into the pillows. The blond apostate lacked either the strength or the will to resist him; a kitten could likely best him as he was right now. 

“How... how long was I out for?” Anders managed to ask.

“You have slept for three days since I brought you here,” answered Fenris.

“Three...!” exclaimed Anders as he tried to sit up; the elf pressed his hand lightly upon Anders’ chest. “I have to go - my patients, the clinic, they need me!” He struggled, but in his current state, the apostate could no more have moved Fenris’ hand than he could move a mountain.

Finally he gave up and flopped back onto the pillows. “Alright,” he sighed. “You win. I’ll stay here.”

Fenris straightened. “Wait here; I have some broth. You have lost much blood; you should eat.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” replied Anders weakly, hating the way his voice quavered slightly. The irrational impulse to giggle had left him, leaving him with the sombre realisation of how close he had come to death. He closed his eyes and, as he heard Fenris quietly moving away from the bed, he sank his healer’s senses into his own body.

Fenris was correct; at a guess, it looked like he’d lost at least three pints. No wonder he was so weak. There was some low level of infection in the ragged wound across his left cheek; healing potions had dealt with the worst of the damage, but Anders drew upon his healing magic and channelled it into the wound, burning out the infection and healing the flesh until only the faintest pale traces of a scar were left.

The effort left him exhausted and trembling.

He closed his eyes for what seemed only a moment before someone was shaking his shoulder gently.

“Mage? Anders? Open your eyes.”

He managed to open them with some difficulty to find Fenris leaning over him, a look of intense worry in his eyes.

“I’m awake... I think,” he managed to croak, throat dry and parched. “How... how long was I out for that time?”

“Nearly a whole day,” answered Fenris gravely as he sank down to sit upon the edge of the bed. “You had me worried.”

“You? Worried about me?” Anders managed a faint, breathless chuckle. “Should I be flattered?”

Fenris scowled - ah, now that was more like it! Fenris scowling was familiar and reassuring. He knew where he stood with a scowling Fenris.

“Must you make everything into a joke?” snarled Fenris. “You nearly died! I might have lost -”

The elf broke off suddenly and lurched to his feet, whirling away. 

Eyes widening in surprise, Anders reached out without thinking and caught Fenris’ wrist with one pale hand. “Wait, don’t go!” he exclaimed.

Fenris paused, and glanced down at Anders’ long pale fingers curled around the warm brown skin of his wrist. He could have broken free of the mage’s weak, fragile grip with no effort, but he glanced back to Anders who was regarding him with wide eyes.

“Don’t go,” Anders repeated, softer.

Fenris held still for a moment longer, then slowly nodded and sat back down upon the edge of the bed. Anders loosened his grasp upon Fenris’ wrist but the elf merely shifted his other hand to lay it over Anders’ fingers, holding his hand there.

Anders’ eyes widened further. “Fenris,” he said quietly. “What’s going on?”

The elf’s gaze turned to the floor between his feet. “When I walked into the square, you were collapsed upon the ground, that... _thing_... crouched over you, drinking from you. I thought....” He closed his eyes. “I thought it had killed you - that I was too late once more.”

“Wait.” Anders closed his eyes, inwardly cursing his exhaustion that still seemed to be fogging his mind somewhat. “You mean you knew about the other bodies? The bandits and other victims that Aveline was talking about?” He opened his eyes to look up at Fenris.

The elf frowned slightly, then sighed very quietly. “I should have known that Aveline would have discovered the bodies. Yes, I knew about them. This creature has been preying upon their kind for a while. I thought at first I was the only one, but then I started coming across the signs - a couple of stray cats that had been drained of their blood and carelessly thrown aside.”

Anders couldn’t help the small, distressed sound that escaped his lips; Fenris glanced back at him, then patted his hand gently.

“The cats were only the start,” Fenris went on. “People began to... disappear. The creature was very careful at first but slowly it grew careless - or perhaps more bold. It ceased to hide the bodies of its victims.”

“Aveline said there are eight bodies in the morgue,” said Anders quietly.

“Only eight?” replied Fenris.

“How many were there?” whispered Anders, horrified. Fenris glanced away, and Anders shivered. “Oh Maker. Fenris... this creature... how long has it been going on? Where did it come from?”

“Where it came from, I do not know,” the elf said in a low voice. “But it has been at large in Kirkwall for three months now. I have been hunting it, but it is cunning - until now it has hidden its tracks carefully. Something has changed however, and now it does not trouble to hide the evidence of its existence. It hunts openly in the very streets of Hightown itself, no longer content merely to skulk in shadows and alleyways. But you are its first victim to be struck down in the very heart of Hightown, so close to the steps of the Chantry.” He turned and fixed Anders with a keen eye. “What were you doing there, mage?”

Anders swallowed hard. “I... I was coming to find you. To warn you. Aveline and the others - they don’t know what you really are - I’ve not breathed a word to anyone! But Aveline wanted me to look at the bodies in the morgue and tell her what I think could have killed them. Hawke thought it sounded like the work of a blood mage, but I thought - but I knew it couldn’t be you, you would never have been so clumsy as to leave the bodies of your kills lying around for the guards to find -”

“You were coming to warn me?” rumbled the elf quietly, and Anders fell silent. The silence stretched out, uncomfortable between them, as Anders shifted slightly under the elf’s green gaze. Finally he nodded slightly.

“Yes, I... I suppose I was,” he agreed in a small voice.

“Should I, now, be flattered?” murmured the elf. Startled, Anders glanced up at him, and his eyes widened as he saw Fenris’ lips curve in that small, rare smile again.

“Fenris,” he breathed. “What... what’s going on?”

The elf straightened and released Anders’ hand as he stood, pulling his wrist effortlessly free from Anders’ pathetic grip as he turned away. “You should eat, and then rest,” was all he said.

Anders could only lie there and wonder at the change in Fenris. He was behaving in what Anders could only describe as a most _un_ -Fenris-like manner - particularly where _this_ particular blond apostate was concerned.

He couldn’t fathom it at all. But it felt....

It felt _nice_.

***

Anders was sleeping again. Fenris was not surprised or unduly alarmed by this; he’d finally managed to coax the whole of one bowl of broth into the mage and nearly half of another. The apostate was still very weak and listless, and it was likely he would need a lot of rest to regain his strength and vitality.

Doubtless the mage had not entirely recovered from Fenris’ own attack upon him, or else he might have been able to put up a stronger fight against the creature, Fenris mused; the mage may be many things - including annoying, irritating and argumentative - but it had to be said that he was not customarily weak.

That was one thing he had gotten wrong about Anders - he had dismissed the mage as weak quite early on during one of their frequent spats, insinuating that a mage that had allowed themselves to become possessed must be lacking in self-control, willpower and discipline. Anders had insisted at the time that he would prove he wasn’t weak, which Fenris had dismissed with a sneer - something he had found himself increasingly regretting over the past few years of their acquaintance. Upon later reflection, he had been forced to admit that living so long with a demon inhabiting his body without losing himself indicated a great force of will; and a man did not last long amongst the denizens of Darktown without a great deal of fortitude - yet Anders not only dwelled amongst them, but he treated and healed them - selflessly, at that, through long, hard hours, and often to the detriment of his own health. Someone that capable of self-sacrifice could not be considered weak.

Yet there it was; the damage had been done, and as time passed it became harder and harder to try to apologise for that early insult. Initial mistrust and dislike had given way to grudging respect as Anders proved himself a capable and valuable member of Hawke’s little cadre of misfits. Indeed, when not ranting about mages’ rights or near-dead from exhaustion, the blond apostate could actually be quite charming - if one could overlook the whole possessed-by-a-Fade-demon thing. And that was easy to do, most of the time; one merely had to avoid talking about mages’ rights or Templars within Anders’ hearing.

It was hard to overcome habit, too; he and the mage were too used to snapping at each other, to the point where they both fell naturally into the same roles over and over. He’d found himself wondering increasingly whether Anders had grown as tired of it as he had.

Fenris glanced over at the sleeping man. His face was still far too pale, but his lips were no longer bloodless and there was a slight touch more colour to his cheeks. Perhaps tomorrow, the elf mused, Anders might be capable of sitting up for a while.

Though that would mean the mage might press once more to know what was going on - and Fenris was certain Anders didn’t mean the vampire slayings here in Hightown.

Words did not come easily to Fenris. He was not glib of tongue like Hawke or Varric; he lacked Isabela’s casual charisma and charm. He -

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the front door of the dilapidated old mansion. With a last glance at the unconscious mage, Fenris snatched up his sword and made his way out to the top of the stairs just as Hawke burst in, with Varric, Isabela and Merrill close upon his heels.

“Fenris! Fenris, where -” Hawke broke off as he spotted the elf, and he hurried up the stairs. “Fenris, Anders is missing! He was supposed to call on Aveline four days ago and no-one’s seen him - I know you and he don’t see eye to eye, but-”

Hawke’s voice tailed off as he followed Fenris back into his room and his eyes fell upon the unconscious apostate lying in the elf’s bed.

“That - is that -” began Hawke.

“The mage. Yes,” agreed Fenris as he returned his greatsword to its stand and reached for a bottle of wine. “Keep your voice down or you will wake him.”

“What?” Hawke was staring at Fenris in stunned amazement; Fenris affected not to notice it and glanced around for a glass before giving up and settled for drinking directly from the bottle.

Varric whistled long and low. “Well, well, Elf. Not who I’d expect you to warm your bed with,” said the dwarf.

“I am warming the bed with no-one, Dwarf,” growled Fenris distastefully. “The mage was attacked four nights ago and gravely hurt. He was in no fit state to go back to his pathetic hovel of a home in Darktown, nor to be left alone whilst I sent for help.”

“You’ve been looking after Anders all this time?” exclaimed Merrill. “Oh Fenris, that’s so _sweet_ of you!” 

“I am not _sweet_ ,” growled Fenris. “He has cared for me and healed me in the past when I have been injured; I am merely repaying that debt.”

Hawke eyed him shrewdly. “Do I detect a thawing there towards our favourite apostate healer? Could it possibly be you actually _like_ Anders, Fenris?”

“Pfaugh!” exclaimed Fenris, turning away in frustration and hoping that the colour rising to his cheeks did not give him away. Hawke’s observations were always far too sharp and astute; the man lived up to his name at times.

“Oh, this is _too_ delicious for words!” chuckled Isabela. “Here’s us frantically searching all over Kirkwall for Sparklefingers - and here he’s been all along, tucked up cozy as you like with you! Naughty Fenris - you wanted him all to yourself!”

“I did _not!_ ” snarled Fenris as he rounded on the pirate with a growl.

“Ooh, touchy,” she smirked. Fenris opened his mouth to snarl a retort, but at that moment Anders gave a small sigh and shifted slightly in the bed.

“Anders?” said Hawke as he hurried over to the blond apostate, who was blinking drowsily. “Anders, are you alright?”

“Hawke?” Anders murmured weakly. “What are you doing here?”

Hawke chuckled as he sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Anders’ hand. “Funny, I could ask you the same question. We’ve been searching for you all over Kirkwall - what happened to you?”

Anders sighed. “Aveline’s mysterious killer of bandits,” he shrugged. 

At that, the others hurried over and crowded around the bed, exclaiming in surprise and all hurling questions at him, wanting to know who, where, what and how.

“No, it’s not a blood mage,” Anders said firmly over their questions, lifting his hands in mute protest. “I’m not sure _what_ it was. I didn’t get a very clear look before it jumped me. It managed to rip through my barrier spell almost as though it weren’t there, and then it went straight for my throat. It’s all rather hazy after that.”

“What did it do to you, _lethallin_?” asked Merrill gently. “You look so pale and white - like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“No ghost - unless ghosts have developed the habit of drinking blood,” replied Anders dourly. “It drained me of several pints, and I would likely have ended up right next to those other eight bodies in Aveline’s morgue if Fenris hadn’t shown up.”

Fenris shifted uneasily as suddenly he found himself the target of their attention once more.

“You saw it? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” demanded Hawke.

“You were looking for Anders,” Fenris pointed out.

“Fenris....” growled Hawke in frustration. The elf shrugged.

“The creature fled at my approach; evidently it did not expect its meal to be disturbed. I did not get a clear view of its face,” he replied. “But Anders was not its first victim; it had slain a servant from one of the nearby noble’s houses.”

“Just what Red was worried would happen,” said Varric, shaking his head with a sigh.

“So, what exactly are we dealing with here?” asked Hawke, glancing from Fenris to Anders.

“A vampire,” said Merrill, with a slight shiver.

“A what?” said Hawke, surprised, as he turned to face her.

“Old Dalish legends tell of a soul that was cursed by Fen’Harel to never be able to turn their face to the sun ever again or eat or drink meat or wine but instead live only on blood,” she said darkly. “I thought it only a myth or legend, such as one would tell around a campfire to amuse or scare the little ones.”

“Varterrals were supposed to be myths and legends too,” said Hawke heavily; she lowered her gaze and nodded unhappily.

“So, what - we have some ancient Dalish legend come to life, haunting the streets of Hightown and sucking the blood of unwary bandits, servants and blond apostates?” said Varric.

“You can keep this one out of your books, Varric,” warned Hawke as he jabbed a finger in the dwarf’s direction. Varric raised his hands placatingly.

“Hey, suspension of belief can only go so far, Hawke - even _my_ readers wouldn’t believe this shit!” he protested.

Hawke turned back to Anders. “How bad is it? We should get you back to my place; I’ll get Bodahn to organise one of the spare rooms and Orana can-”

“He is staying here,” interjected Fenris, then blinked as both Hawke and Anders turned and stared at him. “That is - I mean to say - Anders may stay here if he prefers.”

“Careful, Elf, or people might start to get the idea you’re actually _fond_ of Blondie,” remarked Varric.

“Something you’re not telling us, Fenris?” smirked Isabela.

“Anders?” asked Hawke.

Fenris found he couldn’t look away from the blond apostate as he turned his head to stare at the elf; he found he was holding his breath.

“It’s alright, Hawke,” Anders said quietly. “I’m safe enough here for now. I don’t think I would have the strength to walk as far as your estate just yet, but if Fenris will allow me to stay a couple more days, I should be back on my feet again soon.”

“You may stay as long as needed,” said Fenris.

Hawke was giving him that sharp look again. “Well, if you say so, Anders,” replied the rogue, not taking his eyes off Fenris as he spoke. “Just remember I’m not far away if you change your mind. I’ll send Orana over with some of her good hearty stews to help build you up again.”

“Thank you, Hawke,” replied Anders gratefully. He glanced over at Fenris, then lay back against the pillows. “I’m sorry... I’m very tired,” he murmured.

Hawke took that as his cue to leave and he started ushering the others out. “I’ll be by in a couple of days to see how you’re doing,” he promised Anders. “And Orana will be over this evening with food for you both.” He gave Fenris another sharp look. “I trust you’ll look after him, Fenris.”

“I have thus far,” replied the elf drily.

Hawke herded the others out and the great main door of the mansion swung closed behind him; they were alone once more. 

Fenris waited for another minute, then glanced over towards Anders.

The mage had fallen asleep again.


	6. Discord

It was three more days before Anders was strong enough to leave Fenris’ mansion and return to his Darktown clinic - three very long days, in which it transpired that now Anders was awake, he was a terrible patient. Idleness, it turned out, sat ill with the blond apostate and it wasn’t long before they were both back to sniping at each other as Anders vented his frustration in the only way he could - verbally. Fenris’ softening attitude towards the mage was sorely tested, as was his patience; the only respite came when Hawke dropped by to check on Anders as he’d promised, and filled Anders in on some of the news. Aveline had had no further clues of leads regarding the mysterious vampire creature that had attacked Anders - but at least there had been no further attacks since the creature had gone for him; perhaps, between its servant victim and Anders’ blood, it had sated itself for at least the time being.

But Hawke’s visit drew to a close all too soon, and without the distraction of the rogue around, they fell back into their pattern of sniping at each other once more. Fenris felt frustrated that what little accord they’d managed to find seemed to be such a fleeting, temporary thing - and without thinking, he took that frustration out on the only other person present - Anders himself, snapping at him until they were reduced to sullen glares and silence once more.

Still, Fenris could not help but worry when on the fourth day he woke in the chair he had taken to sleeping in to find Anders absent from the bed. He lurched upright and stared around wildly.

“Mage? Mage, where are you?”

He was not in the chair he had been sitting in the previous evening (having argued long and vociferously to be allowed out of bed until Fenris had finally relented purely for the sake of shutting Anders up and having some peace and quiet); a glance around the room showed that Anders’ staff and coat were likewise missing.

“Damned fool mage!” snarled Fenris as he snatched up his sword and headed out to try and find the blond apostate before he should find himself in yet more trouble.

He caught up to Anders not far from the mansion. The mage yelped when Fenris suddenly appeared at his side and took his arm.

“ _Venhedis_ , mage, have you taken leave of your senses?” the elf snapped. “Where are you going?”

“Take your hands off me, Fenris!” Anders snarled back.”Where do you _think_ I’m going? I have patients waiting for me in Darktown and I’ve been gone too long already.”

“You are in no fit state to walk so far - much less heal anyone when you get there,” hissed Fenris in a low voice.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” retorted Anders loftily. “And in any case, I can’t stand to lay a-bed another minute longer. I’ve been going stir-crazy, and I couldn’t sleep at all last night - I’m _needed_ , damn it!” He yanked his arm out of Fenris’ grip and staggered slightly.

The anger in Fenris’ eyes gave way a little to worry as he caught Anders’ arm once more. “Mage, you are not yet well enough for this,” he said in a low voice. “At least let me walk you to Hawke’s home. There is a passage from his cellars to Darktown, is there not?”

Anders was still scowling, but he nodded. “Yes, there is,” he agreed. “I’ve used it a couple of times before - usually when the templars come calling. He gave me a key, but I don’t like to use it too often. No sense leading trouble right to his door, after all.”

“He finds enough of it without help from either of us,” Fenris agreed drily. “But perhaps it would be well to avail yourself of it this once.”

Anders sighed. “Alright,” he said gracelessly. He leaned against his staff for a moment, head lowered; he swallowed hard, then nodded. 

“Mage?” Fenris prompted quietly.

“I’m alright,” snapped Anders querulously. “I’m just tired. Stop fussing - what’s gotten into you, anyway? You never did explain why this sudden change of heart.” He narrowed his eyes at the elf. “What exactly is going on here, Fenris? You’ve been acting mighty strange ever since you attacked me back in my clinic, and now -”

“This is neither the time nor the place, mage,” hissed Fenris. “We should move on and -”

“Mind where you’re going, bloody knife-ear!” snarled a voice as a tall nobleman abruptly barged into Fenris and nearly sent Anders sprawling. Fenris turned on the man with a low growl as he reached for his blade, but suddenly Anders was standing in front of him and giving the noble a hard shove.

“Why don’t you watch where _you’re_ going?” the apostate retorted, his height giving him an advantage as he loomed over the other man. “You’re the one who walked into us!” He looked the man up and down, his lip curling in a sneer.

Fenris straightened slowly and lowered his hand as he watched Anders verbally tearing into the outraged nobleman who was getting rather red and flustered. Unfortunately it seemed he wasn’t the only one watching; as he glanced around, he realised the altercation was drawing a crowd. 

He tugged at Anders’ sleeve. “Ma- Anders, we should move on; we are attracting attention,” he said in a low voice.

“He’s a bloody knife-ear - why should I apologise to the likes of him?” the nobleman was blustering. Anders glared at him furiously and pulled his arm free of Fenris’ grasp again as he took a step towards the man, who backed away nervously as the tall angry man shook a finger in his face.

“How dare you - that _elf_ is worth ten of you, you officious, stuck-up, oafish prig of a -”

“What is he to you anyway - your bedmate?” leered the nobleman suddenly as he pushed back into Anders’ space, the taller man forced to take a step backwards as the nobleman advanced. “Is that why you’re defending him? Can’t resist shagging a bit of knife-ear arse, eh? Do you let him suck your cock, you dirty knife-ear lover?”

“What?” Anders’ eyes had widened in a way that would have been almost comical if they weren’t in very real danger of attracting the wrong sort of attention; Fenris was all too keenly aware of how close they were to the Chantry, and sooner or later a templar patrol might well grow curious enough to come see what all the shouting was about.

“Anders!” exclaimed Fenris loudly as he grabbed Anders’ arm once more and firmly marched him away, the mage thankfully still too shocked by what the nobleman had accused him of to muster much in the way of resistance.

“Let go of me - he can’t bloody talk about you that way; what in the Void is wrong with him - and what he said, I, I would _never_ -” Anders finally managed to get out, until Fenris pushed him up against the wall of a nearby house and slapped his hand firmly over the mage’s mouth, silencing him. Anders’ amber eyes widened in surprise as he stared at Fenris.

“Anders. That man is a human. I am an elf.” He stared at Anders expectantly, but the mage’s eyes held only confusion. Fenris sighed and lowered his hand, then gestured back up the street.

“Look around, mage,” he said quietly. “Do you see any other elves here that are not servants?”

Anders glanced up the street then slowly shook his head, bewildered.

“Have you ever seen _any_ elf outside of the alienage besides myself and Merrill who are not servants? Have you never wondered _why_ the elves all live in the alienage?”

Anders looked back at Fenris and swallowed. “But - it was wrong for him to call you that. _He_ was the one who walked into _you_ , not the other way around! The way he treated you was - it was unjust, was I supposed to just watch and say nothing?” he cried.

Fenris sighed and ran a hand slowly through his hair. “It was nothing I am not used to, though it was... admirable of you to defend me, if unwise. We attracted too much attention.” He eyed the mage as Anders folded his arms and stared down at him stubbornly. 

“Mage, do you mean to tell me that you have been ignorant of how elves are treated by humans until now?” Fenris arched an eyebrow skeptically.

“No, I haven’t - but I don’t understand; the elves are no strangers to oppression, just as the mages are. I would have thought the elves would have more sympathy for the mages!”

Fenris growled angrily; always the damnable mage must bring everything round to the Blighted plight of mages! He gestured angrily back up the street. “As you have just seen, the elves have enough on their plates without borrowing trouble from the mages! Perhaps if your precious mages stood up more for the elves then the elves would be more amenable to responding in kind!” he sneered.

Anders’ eyes widened indignantly, and then he in turn gesticulated back up the street. “What did you think I was doing back there??” he exclaimed. “I stood up for you and this is how you repay me? By throwing it back in my face?”

The apostate’s voice was rising, and people were beginning to glance in their direction; Fenris was keenly aware of their stares, even if Anders were not, and it would not do well to risk drawing further attention to themselves. Rather than respond to Anders’ words, he merely grasped the mage’s slender wrist firmly and yanked the startled man after him as he headed off down the street once more in the direction of Hawke’s estate.

“Hey!” Anders objected as he stumbled after the elf. “Fenris, let go - damn it!” He tried to flex his wrist and pull free, but Fenris merely tightened his grip and strode faster. The sooner he could hand the recalcitrant mage over to Hawke the better. He ignored Anders’ protests and marched on, the mage forced to stumble after him.

“Slow down, damn you!” cursed Anders, beginning to find himself short of breath. He winced as the elf merely tugged him on. “Fenris... _please!_ You’re - you’re hurting me....”

At that, the elf reluctantly halted and glanced back at the human; he felt a flare of guilt when he saw how pale Anders looked, sweat beading his brow as he panted and a look of real pain in his eyes. Fenris glanced down at his fingers grasped tight around Anders’ wrist, and then abruptly he let go.

“I... apologise,” he said quietly as Anders rubbed his wrist with a small grimace. “Did I injure you?”

“It’ll pass,” Anders replied, his gaze on his wrist; he leaned his back against the wall of a nearby house and closed his eyes for a moment. 

“Do you need to rest? Hawke’s house is not far.”

Anders opened his eyes and glanced up the street. “I’ll manage,” he said, his voice subdued. He was silent for several long minutes as he rubbed his wrist, looking pale, ill and as though he should not be anywhere other than in his bed right now. Finally he spoke, his voice still quiet and withdrawn. “Fenris... what Merrill said... about vampires.” He didn’t lift his head.

“What of it?” replied Fenris, a slight touch of irritation in his voice as the human changed the subject.

“She said they’re cursed not to walk in daylight, or eat or drink,” Anders went on. “But it’s daylight now - bright sunshine, in fact. And I’ve seen you eat _and_ drink.” He finally glanced up at Fenris, and the elf frowned.

“Your point?” 

“Just this: you appear not to be a typical vampire,” said Anders slowly. “Any more than you are a typical elf.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or than I am a typical mage.”

Fenris scowled. “Explain, mage,” he growled.

Anders sighed. “Maybe I’m tired of us fighting. And maybe we should consider more the things we have in common and stop using them to drive us apart.” 

He pushed himself away from the wall and headed on towards Hawke’s house.

After a moment, Fenris followed after him. Had Anders glanced back, he would have seen a troubled, thoughtful expression on the elf’s face as Fenris pondered the mage’s words - and also as he recalled Anders’ face at the moment the noble had turned the tables on him and suggested he was Anders’ lover.

The look in Anders’ eyes had been almost pure horror. Evidently the thought of laying hands on the elf for any other reason than healing was abhorrent to the mage.

Fenris wondered at the inward feeling the memory brought him. Was that... disappointment?

No. Surely not.

They walked on in silence.

 

***

 

Anders saw little of the others for the next few weeks; he returned to Darktown to find a line of patients waiting to see him, and there was nothing to be done but roll up his sleeves, down a stamina potion and then get straight back to work. No matter what may be happening in the upper reaches of the city, down in Darktown life carried on much as it usually did; accidents in the Bone Pit, a chokedamp episode in one of the lower levels of the tunnels, multiple cases of summer fevers and a nasty outbreak of typhus kept him busy. From time to time Hawke would drop by in search of healing potions for another trip or to bring him herbs and other healing supplies; Isabela dropped by a couple of times in search of his talents to relieve a troubling itch, Varric showed up each week to remind him of Wicked Grace, even though by the end of a day’s healing he was too exhausted to do much more than extinguish the lantern outside his clinic before collapsing into bed. Merrill spent an afternoon down in his clinic; she’d brought various bundles of herbs she’d gathered on a recent trip up Sundermount with Hawke, and stayed to chatter whilst busying her hands with winding bandages. After she’d gone, he had to reorganise all his potion bottles and reagents again, and his grimoire had been moved. 

Of Fenris, he saw nothing at all.

Aveline dropped by a few times to request he examine more bodies; the unknown vampire seemed to be steering clear of Hightown now, but bodies were still turning up bled dry - this time in Lowtown, particularly around the docks. Aveline had ordered the patrols increased but without success - though from what Varric let slip about a month after Anders returned to the clinic, it seemed the increased guard presence was putting something of a crimp in the plans of several smugglers that operated through the docks.

Summer heat gave way to autumn storms. One morning Anders opened the door of his clinic to light the lantern and instead found Hawke waiting on the doorstep.

“I need you along on this one, Anders,” the rogue said without preamble as he pushed his way past Anders into the clinic, followed by Aveline, Isabela, Varric - and Fenris.

“Good morning to you too, Hawke,” said Anders in mild bemusement as he watched the others enter then closed the door before following them into his clinic. “Can I ask what the occasion is?” 

“Slavers,” replied Hawke before glancing to Aveline.

“As Hawke says,” the guard captain nodded. “We’ve received a tip-off that a group of slavers have been using some caves just a little ways along the coast as holding pens for slaves bound for Tevinter. There’s a ship due to pull out from dock in three nights’ time that’s rather strangely empty and is bound for Tevinter - our best guess is that it’s going to put in at a cove near the caves to pick up its human cargo rather than taking the risk of moving them on board from the docks themselves.”

“Trouble is that Aveline’s informant doesn’t know _which_ set of caves,” added Hawke. “And the Guard don’t have the resources to scout them all. Which is where we come in.”

“Let me guess - you want a healer along in case of trouble?” replied Anders. He glanced to the others, then shrugged. “I’m in. When do we leave?”

“Now - if you’re ready,” replied Hawke.

“Give me a moment to get my pack,” Anders nodded. He headed back to the small curtained-off area at the rear of the clinic.

He glanced briefly around the small alcove which was his own personal space as he reached for his pack. You could never tell when the templars might come calling; he kept his pack ready beside his cot pretty much all the time in case he needed to make a hasty getaway. There were only a few extra things he would need to pack.

He moved his cot then knelt down to pull up a loose floorboard beneath. Lifting out a small wooden chest, he opened it.

This was his secret stash of lyrium. There were many things in his makeshift clinic that he could replace reasonably easily if templars or the Coterie came calling - but he could ill afford to replace lyrium, and the vials nestled in the box represented a significant amount of coin. It was risky enough dealing with the lyrium smugglers as it was; he didn’t care to have to do it too often.

He picked out a few vials and tucked them into one of the pouches at his belt before carefully replacing the box in its hidden safe spot and putting the floorboard and cot back in their proper places once more. Then he carefully packed his pillow.

He pulled on his heavy quilted tunic and the feathered over-jacket before emerging from the alcove with the pack. He paused by his workbench to add several healing and stamina potions and a healing kit before he tied his hair back then swung the pack onto his back. Then taking up his staff, he joined Hawke and the others.

“Alright, I’m ready,” he said. “Just let me lock up the clinic and we can go.”

***

Caves. Why did it always have to be caves? Anders was already regretting having agreed to come along by the third cave. They’d found no sign of these supposed slavers - but plenty of spiders, including far too many of the giant kind for his liking. Not that he was _afraid_ of spiders - well, not the more normal-sized kind, anyway - but he’d run into far too many of the corrupted kind down in the Deep Roads as a Warden not to be at least a little uneasy around the giant ones.

Plus spider venom was so corrosive, and spider bite wounds were so damned prone to becoming infected. Anders was kept busy both during and after each fight, keeping up shields on them all - and particularly the two warriors; Aveline and Fenris were always on the frontline of each melee, which frankly suited Anders as they were between him and the nasty pointy end of the giant spiders, but which also meant he was constantly having to work on healing spells at a distance whilst maintaining shields on them both.

It made it harder to concentrate on his surroundings, and he couldn’t look in two directions at once - which nearly resulted in disaster when he inadvertently stepped directly beneath a giant spider that dropped directly on top of him. The monstrous creature knocked him to the floor and he found himself half-wrapped in webbing with his right arm pinned to his side and his staff knocked out of reach before he could do much more than give a cry of surprise; he had a nasty moment as he tried to keep the creature’s venomous fangs away from his face with his left hand before Varric was able to get a couple of shots off that distracted it long enough for Fenris to close the distance and swiftly eviscerate then decapitate it.

Hawke and Aveline hauled him out from beneath the corpse of the giant spider and Isabela swiftly sliced away the sticky spiderweb with a dagger as Fenris cleaned his blade. Anders found he was shaking slightly as the adrenaline slowly left his system.

“Easy there, Anders,” murmured Hawke gently as the last strands were pulled free; Anders leaned over with his hands braced against his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. They’d been at this for some eight or nine hours now, since reaching the Wounded Coast, and only cleared three caves - and found nothing. Between the spiders and the dark, closed quarters of the caves, Anders had really had quite enough, thank you.

“There’s nothing left in here but cobwebs and stink, Hawke,” said Varric as he stomped over, shaking his head. “It’s getting late. What do you say to making camp?”

“Preferably somewhere _outside_ ,” added Anders as he straightened then made his way over to where his staff had gotten knocked during that last fight. He picked it up and checked it over for any damage.

“The caves are at least dry,” said Hawke.

“I need fresh air,” said Anders and set off towards the cave exit, not looking back to see if the others were following. He’d had enough of these caves; he’d never made an issue over his claustrophobia but right now he was pretty much reaching the limit of what he was prepared to face, and that last spider attack had shaken him up badly. He’d been lucky, he supposed, that the spider had been intent on trussing him up first rather than go straight for biting him.

He was aware of someone following him as he reached the mouth of the cave and out onto the beach; he didn’t look back however as he carried on across the sand until he reached the high water mark, indicated by the detritus fetched up by the waves in a long line along the beach. It was getting dark, the sun low on the horizon.

“Mage.”

Anders jumped, startled; in bare feet, the elf was far too good at sneaking up behind him. He turned, one hand pressed over his heart as he panted. 

“Maker, don’t do that!” he exclaimed. “Are you seriously trying to give me a heart attack? Because sneaking up on me like that is a good way to do it - and get yourself fireballed,” he added warningly.

“I... did not mean to startle you,” said Fenris slowly. “There may be slavers nearby. You should not go off alone.”

“Oh, like you’d care about something happening to me,” sneered Anders. He was tired, rattled, and the last thing he needed was Fenris following him around. “I’m fine - in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a big boy and can take care of myself.”

“Perhaps you would prefer it if I did not come to your rescue next time you walk underneath a giant spider then?” retorted the elf with a frown. His eyes flicked up to stare over Anders’ left shoulder, widening with alarm as he reached for the greatsword slung on his back.

Alarmed, Anders spun around as he reached for his staff.

He had a brief impression of a tall figure dressed in black who had somehow snuck up on them both and was swinging a quarterstaff at Anders. 

He was still trying to raise his staff, a spell upon his lips, when the iron-shod end of the quarterstaff struck his right temple with a sickening crunch.

Everything went black.


	7. Captive

Fenris stared over at the other cage and scowled with worry. Anders still lay slumped against the bars of the other cage. Though Fenris could reach a hand into the cage, the only part of Anders within his reach was the apostate’s left foot. He stared at the livid contusion visible where the slaver’s quarterstaff had struck the apostate’s right temple; the skin had split, and the right side of Anders’ face was covered in drying blood, strands of dark blond hair plastered to the unconscious man’s face. 

Anders had lain there, insensate, since they’d thrown him in there over an hour ago. The longer Anders lay there unconscious, the more worried and alarmed for him the elf grew; he wondered just how much damage the slaver’s staff had done to Anders’ skull. Perhaps the flask of magebane they’d poured down his throat as he lay drifting in and out of consciousness upon the sand had something to do with it.

There had been too many of them; Fenris had been swiftly overwhelmed, and he was hampered by concern for the mage - the fight ending when the magister had set blade to the unconscious apostate’s throat and threatened to slay him. Though the cowl she wore hid her face from view, something of her voice sounded familiar, though he was too distracted by the immediate threat to Anders’ life to place it. Fenris himself had taken several serious wounds by that point and was bleeding heavily. Though he hated himself for it, Fenris had meekly allowed them to shackle him, lacking the strength to fight on - not with Anders’ life hanging in the balance like that.

It seemed they had found the slavers Aveline and the others had been searching for - or, more accurately, the slavers had found them. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Fenris had followed Anders out of the cave - otherwise the slavers would have taken him and they would have been none the wiser.

Instead, now both he and the mage were the prisoners of the slavers and the magister who had accompanied them; and Fenris had lost enough blood that he was unable to simply activate his brands and phase through the bars of his cage to free himself. His wounds had closed and were no longer bleeding, but he was far from healed. He needed to drink - the hunger burning painfully inside - and he knew it would only get worse, the longer he went without drinking.

Anders stirred slightly and gave a low moan. Fenris darted a glance at him; the apostate had turned his head slightly. He reached through into the mage’s cage and shook Anders’ foot.

“Mage! Wake up, mage!”

Anders’ eyes slowly drifted open and he put a hand to his head as he gave another groan. He tried to focus on Fenris.

“F-fenris?” he managed. “Oh Maker. My head’s aching. What happened?”

“It seems Aveline’s slavers found us before we found them,” replied the elf drily. Anders groaned.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” he moaned, his face looking very pale and wan.

“They gave you magebane,” said the elf as Anders clutched at his stomach and swallowed hard against nausea.

“Oh fantastic,” muttered the blond apostate. “Concussion and magebane. It’s like I never left the Tower.” He squinted at the elf, his eyes still unfocused. “What about you? Can’t you just phase through the bars and let us both out?”

“I have lost too much blood,” replied the elf darkly. “I cannot activate my brands.”

“Wait - you mean, that’s how they work?” exclaimed Anders. “You need blood?”

“I do not know - I only know that when I have lost too much blood and need to feed, I lack the strength to be able to use them,” replied the elf. “Danarius never saw fit to explain to me how they worked; I did not need to know, only to obey.” He shifted slightly then winced as he felt the deep slash wound in his abdomen reopen slightly.

Anders’ eyes narrowed. “Just how bad are you hurt?” he asked.

“Bad enough,” replied Fenris. He pulled his hand away enough to show the deep wound and the fresh blood welling up. The pain, dizziness from blood loss and the growing urgency of his hunger was making it harder to think straight.

Anders groaned. “And me without any mana thanks to the wretched magebane,” he nodded, then winced as the movement caused a lance of pain to stab through his head. He gasped then lay still, eyes closed.

“Mage?” asked Fenris, alarmed as Anders lay motionless against the bars.

“Sorry,” Anders whispered, his voice pained. “Head hurts. Trying not to throw up.”

“Mage, how badly hurt are you?” demanded Fenris, his worry mounting in spite of his own pain.

“Bad enough,” whispered Anders with the ghost of a smile as he parroted Fenris’ own words back at him, opening his eyes again. They were dazed and unfocused. “What are they going to do with us?”

“It seems I have been recognised,” answered Fenris heavily. “No doubt they plan to return me to Danarius - or slay me for the lyrium in my flesh.”

“And... me?” asked Anders, his voice softer.

“You are a spirit healer,” replied Fenris slowly. “You would fetch a high price in the slave market at Minrathous.”

“Wonderful,” murmured Anders. “Assuming I survive the journey.” He lifted a trembling hand to the contusion upon his right temple. “Think my skull’s cracked,” he added, his words starting to slur.

“And I am helpless to aid you,” replied Fenris, frustration in his voice.

Anders lifted his eyes to stare at the elf. Then he began to fumble with the leather cuff upon his left wrist.

“Mage? What are you doing?” asked Fenris, frowning. Anders merely grunted as his fingers wrestled with the leather lacing before finally he was able to free it and slip the cuff off.

“Mage?” tried Fenris again. Anders was pushing up the sleeve of his coat. Abruptly he thrust his arm between the bars of the cages towards Fenris.

“You need to feed,” replied Anders as he held his bared wrist towards the elf. Fenris recoiled.

“Mage, have you taken leave of your senses?” he hissed. “You have a head injury! If I feed from you, I could kill you!”

Anders’ honey-hued eyes regarded him intently. “And if you don’t, we’re probably both going to die,” he replied. “We can’t afford to wait for Hawke and the others. If you drink my blood, then at least one of us will survive this.”

Fenris stared at him. He could feel the hunger rising; the smell of blood on the mage was maddening, and he could feel his mouth salivating at the proximity of it. He found himself reaching out to grasp Anders’ wrist in spite of himself.

“Mage... I do not wish you to die!” he insisted.

“Believe me,” said Anders wearily, “I’m not too keen on the idea myself. But I can barely think straight for the pain in my head right now - and if you drink my blood, then you’ll be able to get out of that cage.” He blinked drowsily at the elf. “Take them down,” he slurred softly. 

Fenris stared at the mage, and then he could stand it no longer. With a hiss, he sank his fangs into the mage’s wrist.

Anders gave a gasp of pain, then whimpered faintly as Fenris drank. After a few moments, the apostate’s head slowly lowered, his arm going limp and heavy in Fenris’ grasp as the elf continued to drain the blood from him. Fenris could feel his wounds steadily closing, muscle reknitting itself together, skin healing over, until he was fully healed. He could feel his strength returning swiftly even as he felt Anders growing weaker, his life steadily draining into the elf.

With an effort, Fenris wrenched himself away from Anders’ wrist, letting the mage’s hand fall to the ground before sitting up and glancing over at the mage. Anders had slumped over and was sprawled unconscious upon the floor of his cage, face white - which only served to make the drying blood down the side of his face stand out more vividly. His arm lay limp, stretched out to lie upon the floor of Fenris’ cage. He lay so still that for a moment, Fenris feared he had killed him.

Hastily fumbling at Anders’ wrist, he was relieved to feel the mage’s pulse fluttering weakly beneath his fingertips, and he sighed. He had not killed the man. He felt strong once more, fully healed - but at what cost?

The sound of approaching voices had him instantly wary. They were speaking in Tevene. Anders was right; they couldn’t afford to wait for Hawke and the others to come rescue them. There were far too many caves down this stretch of the Wounded Coast and no guarantee that their friends would stumble upon the right one. The slavers had been too careful about covering their tracks.

Swiftly he activated his brands - it came effortlessly, a burning pain along the lines of lyrium and then he was shifted halfway into the Fade. He surged to his feet and phased through the bars easily. He cast a brief look back, at the unconscious mage lying so still in the cage, and silently vowed to return and free him. Then he leapt forward.

The two slavers never stood a chance. As they came around the corner, the brilliant blue-white flash of light was their only warning as he surged forward, his hands plunging into their breasts to close about their hearts then solidifying as momentum carried him through their bodies to emerge with a heart in each bloodied fist as the two men crumpled to the ground, dead.

He drained the blood from each heart, gulping it down voraciously before letting the organs fall to the ground and carrying on.

He needed to find their weapons - his greatsword and Anders’ staff. If he lived through this, the mage would have need of it. For now, Fenris needed to take the slavers and the magister down as hard and fast as possible so that he could return to Anders and free him from his cage.

The slavers were unprepared for him. He swiftly took down two more slavers before he found his sword and Anders’ staff. Slinging the staff on his back, he hefted his sword and went in search of the other slavers. Unhampered by the need to protect the mage, he was a whirlwind of death; a sword-wielding lyrium ghost that tore through them effortlessly, his blade carving them up even as their own weapons passed through him harmlessly. He tore hearts from chests and laughed as they screamed in fear and terror; several attempted to flee only to be brought down by his sword as they ran, and he feasted on their blood as the life drained from their bodies.

One by one he cut them all down until only the magister was left. The woman stared at him coldly as Fenris stood before her.

“Where are your lackeys now?” taunted Fenris. “Did you truly think you could keep me caged?”

“I know what you are,” replied the magister calmly. “I know all about you, little wolf. I must admit, when I sent out my own hound I did not expect you to simply walk straight into the hands of my servants - and you brought me a spirit mage too! He will fetch a fine price on the auction block. But I’m afraid I shall have to make you pay for slaying my servants.” She lowered her hood, and Fenris’ eyes narrowed in fury as he recognised her. Hadriana, his hated former master’s apprentice.

“The mage is a free man - as am I!” spat Fenris. “Danarius shall have neither him nor me!” He leapt at her, his greatsword cleaving through the air towards her throat; but at the last moment Hadriana stepped back, lifting her hands and sketching an arcane symbol swiftly in the air as she chanted something under her breath.

There was a brilliant flash of light, and Fenris’ breath was driven from his body as he hit the ground heavily. He rolled to his feet and spun around, but he was alone. 

“Hadriana!” he howled in fury. “I shall have your heart!”

Only silence answered him as he stood there, panting and staring around at the dead bodies of the men he’d slaughtered.

He hunted amongst the bodies until he finally found the keys to the cages. Cleaning off his sword, he settled it upon his back next to Anders’ staff before he made his way back to the cages.

Anders still lay where he had fallen; he didn’t stir as Fenris swiftly unlocked the door of his cage, and as Fenris reached in and rolled the mage over, he feared he was too late. But after an anxious moment or two, he was relieved to find Anders’ pulse in his neck - weak, but still there, the mage’s chest barely stirring with each breath.

Gathering Anders gently into his arms, he cradled the unconscious man close as he set off to find the exit from the cave. He could only pray that Hawke and the others were not too far away.


	8. Unlucky

Anders stirred slightly. He was no longer in the cage, he realised as he gradually awakened; his head was resting against the elf’s shoulder, and he could hear the elf swearing under his breath in Tevene as Fenris carried him carefully in his arms and picked his way between the rocks littering the beach close to the cliffs. The sky was darkening, the last rays of the dying sun illuminating the clouds near the horizon in dark hues of rose and blood-red. The tide was coming in, and Fenris was keeping one eye on the incoming sea and one on the cliffs.

“Fenris,” Anders managed to slur weakly. “Th’... the slaves... slaves in pens. Where....”

“I saw none as I slew the slavers,” replied Fenris tersely. “Now hush. The tide is coming in.”

Anders turned his head slightly. “Can you swim?” he asked quietly.

“No,” replied Fenris. “You?”

“Ordinarily, yes - but I can’t right now,” Anders confessed. He felt weak, his head still throbbing and his guts twisting painfully. He knew without reaching for it that his mana was still depleted by the magebane. There was a dull ache in his wrist where Fenris had drunk from him. He had been dully surprised to awaken at all, frankly. He was fairly certain his skull was cracked, for a start - and between that and the bloodloss, really he shouldn’t still be breathing. He frowned, trying to reach for Justice, but he couldn’t feel anything through the magebane. It had subdued the spirit as well as suppressing his magic.

“Where are we?” he asked, dazedly, trying to think through the aching in his head.

“I am not certain,” replied the elf as he frowned. “We are -” Anders felt the elf suddenly lurch, his arms suddenly clenching tight around Anders as he stumbled and nearly fell. Anders gasped, startled. “I have you,” said the elf reassuringly.

Anders swallowed hard, and nodded jerkily. “Fenris -” he began.

“Hush, mage,” said the elf peremptorily. “Let me concentrate. Ask questions later.”

Anders glanced around, suddenly aware of their danger. Fenris was wading through knee-high water, and it was rising swiftly. There was a very real risk that they had survived the slavers’ pens only to drown in the evening tide. The sun had almost set and it was growing dark as night drew closer.

He squinted at the cliff face, his eyesight still blurring slightly thanks to the concussion - but he thought one of the shadowy shapes he could see looked darker than the others. “Fenris,” he said urgently. “Is that a cave?” He gestured towards the blurred shadow.

The elf halted, then nodded, his keen elven eyes seeing clearly what Anders could only guess at. “Yes, I think so,” he agreed as he turned and waded towards the cliff. 

Anders suddenly gasped as he felt cold water soaking through his coat and his boots. The sea had risen swiftly to Fenris’ waist, and it was washing over Anders’ lap and halfway up his shins. “C-cold,” he shivered.

“Hold on; we are nearly at the cave,” said Fenris. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know,” Anders confessed. “I can try.”

Fenris set his feet down and Anders’ breath caught in his throat as he found himself standing in icy water that lapped at his waist. Fenris kept an arm around him to steady him; he draped his arm around Fenris’ shoulders as they waded on towards the cave. By the time they reached it, the water was up to Fenris’ shoulders and it was Anders’ turn to steady the elf.

The cave entrance was about three feet above the high tide mark, from the staining on the rocks; Fenris climbed up slowly, chilled by the water. By the time he had reached the cave, the water was up to Anders’ neck and he was shivering, chilled. He clumsily began to climb, fingers numb and slipping on the slick rocks. He reached for the next handhold then suddenly he fell. He had a brief view of the look of horror on Fenris’ face before chill waters closed over his head.

He struggled to right himself; his coat was soaked through and dragged him down as he tried to reach the surface as he flailed. The water was dark, and he couldn’t tell which way was up. He was being tumbled by the waves; and then the next wave slammed him against the cliff, driving all the breath from his body. He had to fight the instinctive urge to gasp for air, feeling his chest ache for breath.

Something gripped his wrist - something warm, the grasp firm. Then he was wrenched upwards and suddenly he could breathe again. He flailed with his free arm and his fingers found a lip of rock.

“Mage! Hold on!”

Anders could only nod, gasping for breath; and then another hand was gripping the back of his collar and he was being hauled up out of the dark sea waters like a half-drowned kitten. As he sprawled upon the floor of the cave, coughing and spluttering, he felt the comparison was an apt one.

“Mage? Anders, are you alright?”

“Not - not drowned,” Anders managed to gasp. He coughed, and Fenris slapped his back as he spat up sea water. Then his rebellious stomach gave a heave and he threw up. For a few minutes, he was oblivious to anything other than his body’s efforts to purge itself of seawater and magebane; it was a little while after that he became aware he was lying in Fenris’ arms, exhausted, and the elf was carefully brushing his wet hair out of his eyes as he lay there, panting.

“Looks... looks like I owe you my life... again,” he was finally able to gasp. “Didn’t... didn’t know you cared... Fenris.”

“Fool mage,” replied the elf, but his voice was without its usual rancour. He was staring down at Anders with a slight frown. “What?”

“C-could ask you the same thing,” replied Anders weakly. “Y-you never did answer my que-question. What’s going on, F-f-fenris? You h-hate me. For y-years, you’ve hated me! Wh-what’s ch-ch-changed?” It was getting harder to get the words out as shudders racked his body; he was badly chilled, and lying here in his sodden clothes after his recent bloodloss meant he was running serious danger of developing hypothermia, he realised.

“I do not hate you, mage, I -” Fenris broke off. “Anders? Your lips are blue.”

“C-c-cold,” Anders shivered. “L-lost too m-much b-b-blood.”

“ _Fasta vass!_ ” exclaimed the elf. “We need a fire.” He glanced around the cave. He laid Anders down and the mage heard him moving towards the rear of the cave. Anders lay upon the floor and stared at the low rock ceiling, too weak to do anything but lie there, shivering.

Just his luck, he mused, to have somehow survived head injury, blood loss and drowning only to slowly freeze to death in a cave. 

Still, he mused, as he closed his eyes, at least it wasn’t the Deep Roads.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Mage. Mage!”

He brushed weakly at the hand and made a faint, half-articulated sound of protest before he registered that the hand was warm... and that his shoulder was bare.

In fact, _all_ of him seemed to be bare - and he was being cradled against someone’s warm and rather naked body, and he could feel heat on his skin.

He opened his eyes and blinked, disoriented for a moment. Then he realised that yes, he was indeed naked and lying next to a cheery fire - and being held by an equally-naked elf.

“Anders?”

“I’m awake,” said Anders groggily. “And... apparently naked?”

“You were dangerously cold,” replied the elf. “There were broken crates at the rear of the cave to make a fire with.”

“Skin-to-skin contact’s a good way to warm someone with hypothermia,” nodded Anders, then winced at the stabbing pain in his head that the motion elicited. He hissed involuntarily at the pain.

“Your head?” asked the elf; Anders hummed in agreement. “Is there anything that I can do?”

“Not really, unless there’s a healing potion in one of your belt pouches,” replied Anders.

“No,” replied Fenris. “There are none in yours?”

“No,” replied Anders. “Only a few vials of lyrium - and I’ll be lucky if they’re still intact. Not that they’ll do me any good until the magebane has worked its way out of my system.”

The elf was silent. Anders stared at the flickering flames of the fire, his disquiet growing the longer the silence stretched. The cave was dark, the night pitch-black beyond the dancing light of their fire; too dark for his liking.

“Talk to me,” he finally whispered.

“Mage?”

“Talk,” he repeated. “I can’t bear the silence.”

“Is that why you are always talking?” asked Fenris. “I thought it was because you were in love with the sound of your voice.”

“Don’t,” whispered Anders as he closed his eyes. “Please. Can we not fight, just this once?”

Fenris was silent for a moment. “As you wish,” he finally rumbled quietly. “Why is silence so abhorrent to you?”

“For the same reason I can’t stand the dark and I hate caves,” replied Anders as he opened his eyes and stared at the fire. “I spent a year in solitary confinement, back in the Circle.”

“ _Venhedis!_ ” exclaimed the elf. “Even Hadriana never went so far!”

“Hadriana?” echoed Anders.

“My former master’s apprentice,” replied Fenris. “She delighted in torturing me, every chance she got. I was too useful to be confined alone for more than a few days however.” He fell silent for a moment, then added darkly, “It was she who captured us. I think there were no other slaves.”

Anders opened his mouth to speak but realised from the way Fenris had held his breath that he had not finished. After a moment, the elf went on. “I fear that I was her true target, and that you were simply an innocent victim of her trap. For that, I am sorry. Had you not let me drink from you, we would both have been taken back to Tevinter, to Danarius’ less than tender mercies. You risked your life for both of us; and for that, my meagre thanks seem a poor recompense.”

“It was a risk worth taking,” replied Anders quietly. “You needed the blood; I couldn’t help you to heal any other way. You had the means to get us out.”

“You offered of yourself selflessly,” replied Fenris. “As you have done so often. No matter our differences, you have never failed to heal me in combat; you have had my back as often as I have protected yours. When Hawke asks for your aid, you give of it unstintingly. You toil for hours in your clinic, healing until you are at the point of exhaustion, never once asking anything in turn.”

Anders gazed into the fire, still frowning as he pondered Fenris’ words. “What are you trying to say, Fenris?” he finally managed.

“I once called you weak,” said Fenris quietly. “That was wrong of me, and I have regretted it; I could never find the right time or way in which to apologise. Always we seem to be at each other’s throats, arguing.” He sighed softly. “You said that perhaps we should focus on the ways we are alike instead of the ways in which we are different. I have been thinking on that myself.”

“And...?” prompted Anders, almost in a whisper.

“You were right,” said Fenris. “As were Varric and Hawke when they tried to point this out to me. I did not listen to them. I should have. You have been hurt, and I have been unkind.”

Anders swallowed hard. “I think we’ve both been that,” he replied. “Maker knows I can be an utter ass myself. My tongue got me into trouble as often as it got me out of it, both in the Circle and the Wardens. I have few enough people I can call friends as it is, without alienating the few people who can still tolerate me.” He closed his eyes. “Justice may not need friends... but I do,” he whispered.

“Then are _we_ friends?” rumbled Fenris softly.

“I don’t know,” replied Anders in a small voice. “I wish we could be. I’m tired of always fighting with you, Fenris.”

“And... I with you... Anders,” replied the elf after a moment. “I would appreciate it if....”

Anders opened his eyes and glanced up to find the elf staring down at him intently.

“If we could start over?” Anders guessed; Fenris nodded. Anders smiled hesitantly. “I’d... I’d like that.”

They sat in companionable silence for a little while as they watched the fire. It was Fenris who finally broke the silence.

“Mage... when I undressed you....” His voice trailed off before he went on. “Your... back.”

Anders frowned, and then suddenly stiffened. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “My scars,” he guessed.

“Yes.” Fenris sounded uncomfortable, which was nothing to how Anders felt right now. “Mage, I have seen such marks before... on the backs of slaves.”

Anders was silent. His throat felt tight, his head throbbing more insistently. 

“Mage... _Anders_ ,” said Fenris, quieter. “When you told Sebastian that you had been lucky....”

“Don’t,” whispered Anders, his eyes suddenly stinging and hot. “Don’t ask me this. Please.”

“You once asked me if I had ever thought of taking my own life,” said Fenris softly. “I think now I understand your answer to me.”

“Do you?” asked Anders, his voice harsh as he grit his teeth then drew a ragged breath, feeling an angry tear slide hot and wet down his cheek.

“Forgive me,” said Fenris. “I did not mean -”

“No, you never do!” snapped Anders, hating himself for the way his voice shook. “You never do, but you push, and you push, and you -”

Fenris tightened his grip around Anders as the mage tried to sit up and pull away from him. “Anders. Listen,” he asked.

“Why?” Anders flung back as he struggled weakly against Fenris’ arms. “So you can point out to me how weak I am? That I thought of it and you never did? How much luckier I was that I was merely a mage shut away in the Tower for my own good instead of a slave like you? So you can point out how different we are?” He was crying now, the tears hot and humiliating, angry as he still pulled against Fenris’ arms.

He felt Fenris press his face into his damp hair. “No,” breathed the elf. “That you were never lucky.”

He gave up struggling, and gave himself up to the tears, head and heart aching.


	9. Revelations

Fenris stared down at the sleeping man and felt only guilt.

Weak and exhausted, Anders’ tears hadn’t lasted long before he had slipped into an uneasy rest, a small frown still creasing his brow even in sleep. Fenris held him in his arms rather than lay him down upon the floor of the cave; the man was too thin and had lost far too much blood, and Fenris hadn’t plucked him from the waters and warmed him in his arms only to let him die in his sleep with his scant bodily warmth leached from his bones by the cold stone.

Both his and the mage’s clothes had been spread out around the fire to dry; Fenris’ leggings were dry already, as were Anders’ smallclothes and the threadbare linen shirt he wore beneath the grey robe under his coat, but the heavy coat itself was still wet, the bedraggled feathers sodden, and his boots yet damp. Fenris held Anders close and wrapped the tatty moth-eaten blanket he’d found in one crate around them both.

Anders had agreed to start over, with a willingness that put Fenris to shame after how he’d treated the mage - he had put Anders’ life in danger, both directly and indirectly, far too many times now since awakening in Anders’ clinic a little over a month and a half ago. Now, just when they seemed to be finding common ground between them, with Anders still sick from magebane, weakened by Fenris feeding from him - even if he had offered himself willingly this time - and barely recovered from near-drowning, Fenris seemed to still be unable to stop himself hurting Anders. He had heard the anger and grief in Anders’ voice and yet still he had _pushed_ , just as Anders had said. 

And for what? Nothing good had come of it; only more pain for Anders, who didn’t deserve it. The mage had done nothing to earn it.

He could understand why Anders had lied to Sebastian. The apostate certainly didn’t see the Chantry brother as a friend and could hardly want to parade his pain before the others. In fact, everything he’d seen of Anders suggested that he were a man who chose to keep his pain to himself; certainly, he’d never breathed a word about being kept so long in solitary confinement in Fenris’ earshot before, and he could recall many occasions when he had healed Hawke or their companions - including Fenris himself - yet not mentioned his own wounds.

Fenris frowned. Now he thought on it, whenever the mage spoke of the injustices of the Circle, he spoke of what the mages faced but never mentioned his own experiences there except in the most nebulously-general terms, though he was open enough about other aspects of his past - such as his seven escapes from the Tower and some of his experiences as an apostate and as a Warden. 

He wondered if Hawke or Varric knew of the scars that crisscrossed Anders’ pale skin from shoulders down to the backs of his thighs; scars that Fenris had recognised as the result of many years’ abuse. Scars that he could feel now, against his own skin, as Anders slept in his arms. Anders seemed very enamoured of the blue-eyed rogue, after all, if the doe eyes he cast at Hawke’s back were anything to judge by - and Varric appeared to know pretty much everyone’s secrets. 

Perhaps not this one however. He recalled now that he had never seen Anders strip off any further than shirtsleeves; in fact, hadn’t Isabela been teasing him for it, their previous trip out to the coast? Of course, if any of their companions were likely to know what Anders had been hiding beneath his shirt then it would most likely be the Rivaini woman; she and Anders seemed to have some past history together - he had gotten the distinct impression they had slept together, from chance remarks he’d caught here and there, though he’d seen no signs of Anders showing inclination to rekindle anything more than friendship with her here in Kirkwall. 

Still, it was Anders’ revelation of a year spent in solitary that Fenris found the most disturbing. A year spent in a small, dark cell; no wonder the mage hated the dark, was claustrophobic, and found silence hard to bear. Was that why they found themselves sniping at each other? Ideological differences aside, was any conversation - even a verbal spat - more bearable than silence? 

Had Fenris not raised his hackles at the start, would he have seen this sooner? Might they have found common ground and friendship between them if he’d been less prickly around the mages of Hawke’s acquaintance? If one looked beyond the man’s demon, there was much that was good and decent about the apostate.

Fenris sighed - silently, so as not to disturb the exhausted man’s rest - and stared into the fire, keeping watch until morning.

***

By morning, Anders’ pants and grey robe were dry, as were his boots; his coat was still damp however. Still, when the mage awoke shortly after dawn, he was at least able to pull on dry clothes. The tide had come in again, stranding them a while longer in their cave; they were both hungry but thankfully, Anders’ water canteen was still more than half full; they were able to at least slake their thirst.

Anders slung his damp coat over a boulder at the cave’s entrance in the sunshine then sat near it, staring out over the sea, uncharacteristically quiet.

Fenris sat near him. “How do you feel this morning?” he asked.

“My mana hasn’t come back yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Anders, his voice a trifle waspish.

“It was not,” answered Fenris. “You have concussion and I took enough blood from you that you were unconscious for a time. I have been... worried for you.”

“Were you.” Anders’ voice was flat and unfriendly. Fenris couldn’t fault him for the anger in his voice; he knew he would have been far worse in the mage’s boots.

“I owe you an apology,” Fenris said softly. “I... pushed last night. I had no right to do so. You asked that I stop, yet I continued. I should not have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Anders replied, a harsh, angry edge to his voice as he bit off the words. “You of all people should know better.”

“Yes, I should,” agreed Fenris. He glanced sidelong at Anders’ face as the blond apostate stared out over the sea, noting the tenseness in the man’s jaw as he swallowed, the eyes narrowed against the bright morning light reflecting up from the restless sea. The haunted eyes that refused to look at him.

Fenris glanced out over the waves. “I... Anders, I do not wish to cause you more pain,” he began, hesitantly.

“Then don’t,” Anders snapped. “Just drop it. I was a fool to think you and I could ever be -”

“You were no fool,” Fenris interjected swiftly. “I do not wish to fight with you, any more than you wish to fight with me.”

“Then why -” began Anders, finally turning to look at Fenris. Though angry, they were still their usual dark honeyed hue and not flashing blue spirit fire; Fenris took heart and pressed on.

“Because I wish to understand,” he said. “Why do you speak of such things as happening only to mages in general - never that they happened to _you_? Would not a personal testimony be more persuasive in convincing others of what you say? These are things that you, yourself have experienced.”

“What do you think would be Sebastian’s reaction if I showed him my scars, Fenris?” asked Anders, holding his gaze. “What do you think he would say if I told him I was whipped, beaten, r-” He broke off and glanced away, swallowing hard. “Raped,” he finally managed, his voice cracking on the word as he blinked rapidly. 

“Anders -” began Fenris, but got no further as the blond carried on.

“I’ll tell you what he’d say. He’d say it was obvious that I’d been harmed by my experiences in the Circle but that they aren’t typical. That a few _bad apples_ are no justification for the dismantling of the Circle system as a whole.” Bitterness dripped from Anders’ voice as he spoke. “And he’d dismiss my efforts as being merely my desire for revenge against the templars that mistreated me.” He shook his head. “My experiences weren’t unusual, Fenris - and Kinloch was far from the worst Circle in existence.” He finally looked at Fenris. “Kirkwall may well be though. Nowhere else have I ever heard of Harrowed mages being put to the brand. Never have I seen so many Tranquil as here. And I wonder how many never even survive their Harrowing - or reach it.”

Fenris watched as Anders bowed his head for a moment. “And yet, I _did_ tell the truth,” the mage said softly. “I _was_ lucky. Because at least I wasn’t a woman in the Circle.”

He could only stare at Anders and wonder how much worse it could be. He thought on how female slaves were treated in Tevinter; and then he felt he understood. He had seen enough children sold away from their mothers’ arms to know why Anders might consider himself lucky, even in spite of all that he had experienced. As a healer, he would have had to deliver any babies born in the circle. He, more than most, would have a greater insight into what the women of the Circles experienced.

He wondered if Anders had had to deliver a child he, himself had sired. He decided he had no right to ask Anders that. He didn’t need to know, and Anders didn’t deserve any more pain. 

He reached out towards Anders, sympathy in his eyes, and the mage recoiled away from him. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped. “I don’t want your pity! And that - _that_ , is the other reason I don’t speak of what has happened to me personally - do you think I want everyone’s pitying looks?” The amber eyes glared at him angrily. “Poor Anders, so hurt, so _broken_ by his bad experiences!” Where before it had been bitterness, now pure vitriol dripped from his voice. “Yes, perfect - whilst everyone pities me, they can dismiss my experiences as being just one mage and ignore the fact that they are hardly remarkable - the Circles are _full_ of people like me! I’m not unique - I just managed to survive long enough to escape, and the only unique thing about me was that I just didn’t know when to quit, and I was lucky that when the templars caught me that last time they didn’t just decide to lop my head off or give me the brand on the spot!”

“They caught you?” said Fenris, blinking.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” said Anders bitterly as he turned to look out at the sea again. “They always catch up to me eventually, sooner or later. I’ve always known it’s only a matter of time before they come for me.”

“I will not let them take you,” vowed Fenris. Anders merely laughed and shook his head.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he said. “Even the Hero of Ferelden himself couldn’t keep me safe from the bastards.” 

“You knew the Hero of Ferelden?” said Fenris.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” said Anders, glancing at him sidelong. “He conscripted me out from under the noses of the templars.” He glanced out over the waters. “Beren Amell came from Kinloch, same as I did. I was in solitary when he joined the Wardens - he was just an apprentice when I knew him. He knew only the brand or the noose awaited me back there.”

He leaned forward and stared down. “Look,” he said, his tone subdued, his anger swallowed down once more though Fenris had no doubt it still smouldered beneath the surface. “The tide has turned. I can see sand. Come on; maybe we can find the others.” He grabbed his still-damp coat and tossed it down to the sand below, then stood and slung his staff on his back before turning and starting to climb down.

Fenris stood and watched to see the apostate made it down onto the beach safely, then fetched his sword and armour. Donning it swiftly, he followed.

They headed along the narrow strip of beach, both men silent with their thoughts. Fenris had learned far more about Anders in the space of half a day than he had ever learned in the past three years they had fought together - and with - each other.

Anders had given him much to think on.

***

By the time they ran into Hawke, Varric and Isabela, Anders had recovered enough from the effects of the magebane for his mana to come back. The others came into view as he was sitting on a rock, healing his concussion. The seawater had washed away the blood that had dried down the side of his face, though bloodstains remained on the neck of his shirt and down the front of his grey robe; the nasty cut had closed under the touch of his magic however, leaving only a discoloured bruise and a pale scar. There was little he could do for the bloodloss however.

“Hawke,” said Fenris in soft warning as he saw the others approaching then breaking into a run as they saw them. Anders glanced in the direction of Fenris’ gaze then got to his feet.

“I’d appreciate it if you would say nothing to Hawke or the others of what I said,” he murmured softly, not looking at Fenris as he shaded his eyes with his hand to watch the others approaching.

Fenris shifted restlessly from one foot to the other then glanced down as he lifted a foot to peer at the sand stuck to the sole of his foot. “Your secrets are your own; it is not for me to share them,” he replied, his voice equally quiet.

“Thank you,” said Anders. Fenris glanced up at him to see an open, honest look of thankfulness in the apostate’s amber eyes. There was something disconcerting about the raw vulnerability in the mage’s pale face; Fenris found he had to glance away.

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as he glanced back towards the others.


	10. Stubborn

Anders felt raw inside as Hawke and the others reached them. It was the only way to describe how flayed open emotionally he felt; he’d never told anyone any of the things he’d told Fenris - though he’d never needed to tell Beren. The Hero of Ferelden had already known what happened in Kinloch, even if he hadn't experienced much of what Anders had directly himself. 

How strange that it should be the elf who had inadvertently opened the floodgates on his pain; he’d kept it inside so long after all, and he and Fenris could hardly be said to be close. He could only put it down to the effects of concussion and perhaps the after-effects of nearly dying. Yet something told him that he could take the elf at his word; he had promised not to share what Anders had said with anyone else - or as good as.

He rubbed his wrist absently as Hawke reached him; it still ached, two small bruises over the vein on the inside of his wrist. He’d wondered at that; the bite wounds on his neck from Fenris and then from the creature had healed up without a trace by the time he’d come round from their attacks, but his wrist had bruised. A side-effect of the magebane perhaps.

He was distracted as Hawke grasped his shoulders and stared at him, clear worry in his bright blue eyes as he took in the paleness of his skin, the bruising and scar at his temple, the blood down his shirt; and then, unexpectedly, hugged Anders tightly.

“Maker, Anders, what’s happened to you?” he exclaimed. “You look like death!”

“Good to see you too, Hawke,” replied Anders as he patted the rogue on the back a little awkwardly. Hawke pulled away enough to stare at the apostate.

“What happened? We came out of the cave to see why you and Fenris were taking so long, and you’d both gone - there was blood on the sand, and we could see from the marks that there’d been a fight. We followed the trail as far as we could until the sea covered it - we've been hunting every cave along here, trying to find you both!”

“Hadriana,” replied Fenris darkly. “My master’s apprentice. She captured us both, though I was her true target - Anders was merely an innocent victim caught up at the same time.”

Hawke blinked as he lowered his hands and looked at Fenris; Varric and Isabela were exchanging glances.

“You think this Hadriana was sent by your former master?” asked Hawke.

“Of course! Why else would she be here?” replied Fenris darkly. “Danarius has sent her to retrieve me. I have slain too many of the hunters he has sent after me; he grows more desperate.” 

He turned and paced away, face contorting with anger. “I was a fool to think I was free!” he snarled. “They’ll _never_ let me be!”

Anders turned and watched silently as Fenris clenched his fists then turned back towards them. “I know where she’ll be - the holding caves; they held slaves in the old times, but it seems they are no longer abandoned. Anders and I were held in one of the smaller caves near there.” He scowled. “I took down several of her men, but she escaped. We must go quickly, before she has a chance to prepare or flee!”

Anders stepped back as Hawke moved towards Fenris. “We’ll find her, Fenris, never fear!” He glanced back at Anders. “Anders... are you fit for this? You look -”

“I’m coming,” Anders interrupted him. 

“Blondie, are you sure?” asked Varric.

“You look as though you’re about to fall over,” added Isabela. “Sweet thing, you’re not looking too good.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he argued. “Did any of you think to bring my pack?”

“Right here, Blondie,” nodded Varric as he unslung it from his back then passed it to him. Anders crouched down and hastily sorted through it. He breathed a silent yet fervent prayer of thanks that his mother’s pillow was still there, safe.

Reached down into the pack, his fingers soon found what he was searching for - a couple of stamina potions and a small packet of jerky. Rising, he slung the pack on his back and held out one of the potions to Fenris. The elf took it silently with a nod of thanks; Anders flicked out the cork from his own potion and downed the contents swiftly, grimacing slightly at the bitter aftertaste. He felt a rush of energy fill him, driving away the bone-deep weariness and weakness he still felt. 

What he really needed was a good meal and then sleep - a solid eight hours, minimum. Stamina potions and jerky eaten on the run would have to suffice however; he was no less keen than Fenris to see Hadriana brought down.

The elf was staring at him in slight surprise. “What?” said Anders. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“In your condition, I would have thought... I would not fault you should you choose to remain behind,” said Fenris slowly. Anders snorted.

“I may not have quite the reasons you do to hate her, but I’m none too fond of waking up in a cage,” replied Anders, his voice taut. “I owe her for that. And you got me out of there. I’m with you.”

The elf regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. “As you wish,” he replied, before turning and nodding to Hawke, Isabela and Varric. “Try to keep up!” he called back to Anders over his shoulder before heading off back up the beach, retracing their steps.

“Try to...!” echoed Anders, indignantly as he and the others set off after him. “Bloody arrogant elf,” he muttered under his breath, then cast Haste on himself, Hawke, Isabela and Varric.

***

Anders had no idea how many of Hadriana’s men Fenris had slaughtered, but it seemed it must have been only a small part of the forces she’d brought.

They’d had to follow Fenris closely; Anders had been unconscious when he and Fenris had been brought to the holding pens, and Fenris had been quite far from them when the apostate had finally drifted back to consciousness in the elf’s arms. The path was as unfamiliar to Anders as it was to Hawke, Isabela and Varric.

Despite the stamina potion, the Haste spell and the jerky he’d managed to eat on the run, he still felt fatigued by the time Fenris led them up a rough stony path that led from the beach up to a set of caves. There were several men outside who drew weapons as they approached.

Fenris didn't hesitate; he launched himself at them, lyrium lighting up in a blaze of light. Anders hastily called up shields over them all, swiftly followed by Haste before moving forward. Hawke had drawn his fighting knives and had leapt into the fray as Varric picked slavers off at a distance. Anders spun his staff and called up chain lightning. 

The fight was short and brutal, the outcome predictable. Anders stared around at the scattered dead bodies then glanced around at the others. “Anyone need healing?” he called out. 

Hawke had a nasty cut down one arm where he'd failed to dodge or parry a sword in time, and Fenris had a couple of scrapes; the elf regarded Anders intently as the mage called up healing magic and worked on Fenris’ wounds without complaint. 

As Anders finished, the elf laid a hand on his arm before he could pull away. “You have my thanks,” he said quietly. Anders stared down at him, startled, then felt his lips quirk into a half-smile. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. 

“How are you?” asked the elf softly as he kept his hand on Anders’ arm.

“Truthfully?” asked Anders. “Exhausted. Sick. But I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me; let’s just find this Hadriana.”

“You are stubborn, yet tenacious,” said the elf thoughtfully then studied him for a moment longer before nodding as he released Anders’ arm and stepped back, maintaining eye contact for a brief second longer before turning away. Anders stared after him, nonplussed.

“We must be careful,” said Fenris to the others as he gestured towards the cave entrance. “There were many such holdings once, especially in the mountains where individual slavers kept private pens. They were designed to protect against raids by fellow slavers. No doubt it’s why Hadriana chose this place.” 

“And doubtless the protections would involve magic?” guessed Hawke. Fenris shrugged.

“Enough did. Doubtless Hadriana will make use of them if they still exist after so long,” the elf answered. “Be on your guard nonetheless; mundane means of protection can be just as lethal, and the holding pens were designed to be easily defended.” He turned towards the cave. “I only pray that we’re not wasting our time and that Hadriana has not already fled.”

***

Fenris led them inside to the caves where he had slaughtered Hadriana’s men and he and Anders were imprisoned. They paused briefly to stare at the cages where Anders and Fenris had been held.

Anders stared at the cages and swallowed hard. He hadn't realised just how small they were; he had been unconscious when he and Fenris had been locked in them, and distracted by pain when he finally came around - and he’d passed out fairly soon after Fenris had started to drink from him. As he glanced around the small cave and then back at the two cages, he could feel his breath quickening and had to take a moment to consciously slow it again. He felt queasy, and after a minute or two he had to turn away.

“Maker’s breath, Fenris - those cages aren't fit for dogs, much less men! How did you and Anders escape?” he heard Hawke exclaim behind him.

“I... allowed them to think I was more seriously wounded than I was,” answered Fenris. “It was their undoing.”

“But - what of Anders?” asked Hawke.

“Magebane,” said Anders tersely. “And concussion. I was... out for the count. Fenris couldn't count on me for assistance. He got us both out.” He toed the body of one of the guards, then headed back into the main chamber. “We should move on,” he called back. “We already know Hadriana fled from here.”

“Indeed,” agreed Fenris as he moved past Anders; for a moment their eyes met and Anders could see understanding in the elf’s eyes. Fenris knew why he wanted to move away from the cages, and it wasn't Hadriana.

“This would have been an initial staging area,” Fenris explained as he led them deeper into the cave system. “Low-value slaves would have been kept here - easy bait for raiders who would have taken them and not looked further in for the valuable stock.”

“I should feel insulted by that,” said Anders diffidently. Fenris glanced back and gave him a rare, brief smile.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “Hadriana never was very good at appreciating real worth.” He turned away again.

Anders blinked, then after a moment he gave a small, wry smile as he followed the elf.

“That was the closest I’ve ever heard the elf come to complementing Blondie,” remarked Varric behind Anders, talking quietly to Hawke. The rogue snorted.

“If he’s not careful, people might get the idea he actually _likes_ Anders!” Hawke replied as he moved up to clap Anders on the shoulder. “ _Some_ of us appreciate your good looks though, Anders,” he grinned.

“Good looks?” It was Anders’ turn to snort. “Maybe I should look in a mirror more often.”

He still felt exhausted, sick from the magebane that had barely cleared his system, and he knew he must look like death on legs. But he appreciated Hawke’s effort to cheer him - almost as much as Fenris’ quiet compliment. 

He wasn't quite sure just when Fenris’ opinion of him began to mean more than Hawke’s; he found himself wondering what that meant.

Could he be... developing _feelings_ for the elf?

No. Surely not.


End file.
